VOICES   OF   THE  BORDER. 


VOICES    OF    THE    BORDER; 

COMPRISING  r^ 

— 

SONGS  OF  THE  FIELD,  SONGS  OF  THE 

BOWER,  INDIAN  MELODIES,  AND 

PROMISCUOUS  POEMS. 


BY 

LT.   COL.  G.  W.  PATTEN, 


UNITED    STATES   ARMY. 


"  I  have  song  of  war  for  knight ; 
Lay  of  love  for  ladye  bright." 

Wandering  Harper. 


NEW   YORK: 

PUBLISHED   BY  KURD   AND   HOUGHTON, 

459  BROOJIE  STREET. 

1867. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1867,  by 

G.  W.  PATTEN, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of  Ne.v 
York 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED  AND  PRINTED   BY 

H.  0.  HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


To 
LIEUTENANT-GENERAL  WINFIELD    SCOTT, 

THE    GREAT  PACIFICATOR, 

.SUCH     PORTION     OF     THIS    VOLUME    AS    IS     COMPRISED    IN     THE 

'•  SONGS  OF  THE  FIELD  "    WAS    ORIGINALLY    INSCRIBED, 

AS  A   SLIGHT  TESTIMONIAL  OF  THE   HIGH  ESTEEM 

ENTERTAINED   FOR  THE  DISTINGUISHED 

STRATEGIST,  BY  HIS  FRIEND  AND 

COMRADE  IN  ARMS, 

THE  AUTHOR. 

NEW  YORK  CITY,  April,  1867. 


IN  presenting  the  subjoined  poems  to  the  reader, 
the  writer  is  actuated  principally  by  the  motive  of 
rescuing  from  literary  shipwreck  some  of  his  fugitive 
pieces,  which  hitherto  have  floated,  rudderless,  on 
the  uncertain  current  of  the  public  press. 

Having  been  stationed  for  many  years  at  the  fron 
tier  posts  of  the  country,  it  might  reasonably  be 
supposed  that  the  pen  to  him  would  be  less  familiar 
than  the  sword.  Yielding,  however,  to  the  frequent 
solicitations  of  his  friends,  he  has  consented  to 
arrange  for  them  a  full  bouquet  of  those  flowers 
which  presented,  hitherto,  singly,  have  been  re 
ceived  with  a  smile  of  favor,  if  not  by  an  expression 
of  regard. 


CONTENTS. 


SONGS  OF  THE   FIELD. 

PAGE 

SONG  OF  THE  SWORD 17 

THE  AMERICAN  BIVOUAC  ON  THE  BANK  OF  THE  RIO  GRANDE  20 

LANDING  OF  THE  FIRST  AMERICAN  LINE  AT~VERA  CRUZ...  23 

THE  LADY  OF  VERA  CRUZ 26 

THE  VICTOR'S  DREAM 29 

THE  SOLDIER'S  DIRGE 31 

SONG  OF  THE  FIELD 32 

LINES  ON  THE  BURIAL  OF  A  WEST  POINT  CADET 34 

WAR  SONG  OF  ERIN 36 

WAR  SONG  OF  FREEDOM 37 

THE  DEAD  WARRIOR 38 

THE  ASSEMBLY 40 

THE  WARRIOR  BARD 41 

SONG  OF  THE  DRAGOON 42 

THE  WAR-DRUM 43 

THE  ARMY  IN  THE  FIELD 47 

THE  TRUMPET 49 

LINES  ON  A  DECEASED  COMRADE 51 

THE  DREAM  OF  BATTLE 53 

SONG  OF  THE  WRECKER 55 

THE  DYING  VOLUNTEER 57 

LANDING  OF  THE  FLORIDA  REGULARS  AT  TAMPA  BAY 60 

THE  WASTE  WORN 62 

BOYHOOD 64 

THE  TWO  VOICES 66 

THE  SOLDIER'S  VISION .69 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  SOLDIER'S  REQUIEM 72 

COME,  LET  US  DIE  LIKE  MEN 74 

THE  WIND  SPIRIT 76 

THE  GATHERING 80 

SONG  OF  THE  YOUNG  SCOUT 82 

THE  YOUNG  WARRIOR 84 


SONGS   OF  THE  BOWER. 

THE  DREAMING  BOY 89 

THOU  HAST  WOOED   ME   WITH   PLEDGES 99 

SHE  WROTE 100 

STANZAS   FOR  MUSIC 101 

THOU  WERT  NOT  THERE 102 

MIDNIGHT 103 

THE  EYE   OF   CERULEAN   BLUE 104 

LOVE  AND   REASON 106 

I   CANNOT  LOVE  HER 109 

THE  ISLE  OF   LOVE Ill 

BURNING  LETTERS 113 

STANZAS 115 

VENUS  OF  CANOVA 117 

TO  IANTHE 119 

I  LIVE  FOR  THEE 120 

THE  DYING  BETROTHED , 121 

IGNORANCE  AND  BEAUTY 123 

FALSE  GAYETY 124 

THE  RESTLESS  ONE 125 

THE  CHILD'S  REQUIEM 127 

THE  RETURN 128 

IMPROMPTU 129 

THE  LORE  OF  LOVE 130 

THE  LORE  OF  TEARS 132 

THE  OUTCAST 134 

THE  DISCARDED 136 

LOVE'S  PERFIDY 138 

ROSALIE.  .  .  .     140 


CONTENTS.  XI 

PAGE 

FRAGMENT 143 

THE  DYING  PENITENT 144 

THE  FOREVER   LOST 145 

MATILDA 147 

THE  DESERTED  BRIDE 149 

THE  DEAD  MOTHER 151 

THE  LUTE  AND  SHELL 154 

I  COME  TO  THY  PRESENCE 155 

MY  BOSOM  IS  A  SEPULCHRE 156 

THE  RED  ROSE  ;  OR,  PRIDE  REPROVED 157 

STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC 159 

THE  EAGLE  AND  DOVE 160 

THE  BRIDE'S  PRAYER 162 

DREAM  OF  THE  BETROTHED 164 

TO  ADA ^ 166 

THE  CONSTANT  ONE 168 

THE  LAST  LOOK 170 

THE  MAIDEN'S  HEART 172 

THE  SCARCE  FORGOTTEN 173 

STANZAS i  .    175 

THE  LONELY   GRAVE 177 

FOREVER  THINE , 179 

SHE  LOVES  ANOTHER 180 

STANZAS 181 

STANZAS  TO  MARY 183 

DEATH   OF  THE   IMPROVISATRICE 186 

THE   CLOUD   AND   STREAM 190 

COME  WHERE   THE  BILLOW  HEAVES 191 

SONG 192 

COME   THOU  AT   NIGHT 193 

THE  MANIAC'S  VISION 194 

OH,   BLAME   HER  NOT 196 

SONNET  TO  THE  OCEAN 197 

CHERISHED  TOKENS 198 

CHIDE   MILDLY  THE  ERRING 200 

THE   COTTAGE   GIRL 201 

THE   DEATH  OF   MARY 203 

UNREQUITED  LOVE 205 

THE  RETORT  .  ,  206 


xii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

SERENADE 207 

FIRST  LOVE 208 

HYMN   FOR  LILLA 209 

THE  WREATH   YOU  TWINED 210 

LIFE   DREAMS 211 

MEASURE   FOK  MUSIC 213 

LOVE  AND   THE   LILY 214 

LINES  TO  E 216 

STANZAS 217 

NEVER  MORE 219 

WHAT   SHALL  I  TELL  HER 220 

TWILIGHT   STANZAS 222 

BEAUTY    SLEEPING 223 

AND   THOU  WERT   FALSE 224 

CAUTION 226 

ALEIDA 227 

SOFTLY  THE  SENTRY  STARS  OF  NIGHT 229 

I  WILL  NOT  LEAVE  THEE  NOW 230 

I  EVER  DREAM  OF  THEE 231 

THE  UNREGRETTED 232 

MARY'S  UPS  ARE  RED  WITH  ROSES 233 

LATTICE  PEEPING 234 

THINK  NOT  THAT  I  LOVE  THEE 236 

WHY  DOTH  MUSIC  CHARM  NO  MORE 237 

THE  UNREQUITED 238 

THE  GRAVE  OF  MELLON 240 

THE  BRIDE'S  DEPARTURE 242 

THE  PASSING  BKLL 244 

THE  RELEASED  SPIRIT 246 

PRAYER  OF  THE  YOUNG/  NOVICE 248 

BRIDE  UPON  THY  MARRIAGE  DAY 249 

SUNBEAMS  AND  SHADOWS 251 

FLOWERS  AND  POETRY  FOR  ADA 253 

THE  AGED  MOTHER 254 

LINES  AT  MY  SISTER'S  GRAVE 256 

DEATH  OF  ADA 258 

I  'M  STANDING  BY  THEE,  FATHER  DEAR 261 

THE  PAST  .  .  .  .    263 


CONTENTS.  XU1 

INDIAN  MELODIES. 

PAGE 

THE  SEMINOLE'S  EEPLY 267 

TA-BISE-QUONGH 270 

PAWNEE  LOVE-SONG 272 

PAWNEE  CURSE 274 

SONG  OF  THE  TRAIL 276 

SONG  OF  THE  INDIAN  GIRL 278 

SONG  OF  THE  EMIGRANT  INDIAN 280 

INDIAN  DIRGE 282 

NIGHT  ON  THE  SANTA  FK,  FLORIDA 284 

SONG  OF  THE  "  CRIMSON  HAND  " 287 

PALE  EVE  ON  WING  OF  STARLIGHT  RAYS 291 

INDIAN  MELODY 295 

THE  FLIGHT •. 297 

THE  FALL  OF  MONIAC 299 

THE  MISTAKEN  VOLUNTKER 302 

SONG  OF  THE  OKEE-FEE-NOKEE.  .  .                                      .  .  305 


PROMISCUOUS  POEMS. 

THE  POWERS  OF  WOMAN 313 

THE  CALIFORNIA  TRANSPORT 316 

THE  BRIDE'S  LAST  SLEEP 319 

CHANGE 320 

THE  CONDEMNED  CHRISTIAN 322 

THE  OCEAN 325 

DESULTORY  RHYMES 328 

CAROLINE  OF  ENGLAND 331 

THE  HYMN  OF  DEATH 335 

THE  IMP  OF  THE  PALACE 337 

SONG  OF  THE  SEA 340 

THE  NEGLECTED  OPPORTUNITY 342 

IN  MEMORIAM 344 

THE  WINTRY  WRECK 346 

GOING  HOME 348 

THE  MERRY  SLEIGH.  .  .  350 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

PAOK 

THE  LOVER'S  LEASE 352 

THE   LOST   CREED 354 

LOVE'S  PERFIDY 356 

THE  FOOT-RACE 358 

RHYMES  FOR  THE  TIMES 359 


SONGS   OF  THE  FIELD. 


"  And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste."  —  Byron. 


VOICES   OF   THE  BORDER. 


SONG  OF  THE  SWORD. 

SWORD!  which  sleepeth  in  thy  sheath, 
Hear'st  thou  not  the  trumpet's  breatli, 
Where  the  column  deep  with  death, 

Tarries  for  thy  crest  ? 
Know'st  thou  not  the  lot  is  thine, 
Glist'ning  in  the  sun  to  shine, 
Foremost  mid  the  forming  line  ? 

Wake  thee  from  thy  rest! 

Sword !  that  doth  in  darkness  lie, 
Girded  fast  unto  my  thigh, 
See'st  thou  not  'gainst  yonder  sky 

Banners  sweeping  low  ? 
Never  thus  may'st  thou  remain, 
Yield  thee  to  my  hand  again, 
For  the  tear  of  crimson  stain 

Down  thy  cheek  must  flow. 
2 


18  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

Sword  !  when  first  thy  glittering  light 
Flashed  athwart  my  youthful  sight, 
Playfully  I  called  thee  bright 

As  an  angel's  form. 
Years  have  passed,  nor  yet  we  part, 
Thou  art  wedded  to  my  heart, 
Though  I  often  feel  thou  art 

Dreadful  as  the  storm. 

Sword !  although  thy  bosom's  sheen 
'Broidered  be  and  polished  keen, 
Wheresoe'er  its  glow  is  seen 

Shadowed  'tis  with  fears. 
Though  thy  glance  seems  mild  and  meek, 
Such  as  Love's  own  eyes  might  speak, 
Yet  the  smile  will  leave  the  cheek 

Where  its  light  appears. 

Sword  !  I  deeply  love  thy  ray, 
'T  is  to  me  the  light  of  day, 
Yet,  oh  yet,  thou  tak'st  away, 

Bridegroom  from  the  bride. 
Pointing  upward  to  the  star, 
On  the  crest  of  Glory's  car, 
Thou  dost  urge  to  fields  of  war 

Breaking  hearts  allied. 

Sword!  though  fearful  be  thy  gift, 
Once  again  thy  blade  I  lift, 


SONGS  OF  THE  FIELD.  19 

O'er  my  steed,  a  meteor  swift, 

Flashing  shalt  thou  wave. 

Thou  shalt  strike  in  many  wars, 

Battle  for  thy  country's  laws, 

Thou  shalt  plead  the  orphan's  cause 
O'er  the  patriot's  grave. 

Sword  of  beauty  !  sword  of  fear  ! 

Shoutings  mad  are  on  my  ear ; 

Steel  !  where  art  thou  ?   thou  art  here,  — 

Faithful  to  the  last. 
Mid  the  battle's  heartless  hum, 
Mid  the  rolling  of  the  drum, 
Cry  "  Huzza  !  "  I  come  —  we  come, 

Rushing  like  the  blast  1 


THE  AMERICAN  BIVOUAC  ON  THE  BANK   OF 
THE  RIO  GRANDE,  IN  THE  YEAR  184G. 

A  SONG  went  up,  at  the  close  of  day, 
From  the  shining  land  where  the  gold-mines  lay ; 
Strangely,  the  while,  mid  citrons  ripe, 
Glistened  the  flag  of  the  star  and  stripe. 
There  .were  foreign  bands  in  the  sunset  light, 
Lying  at  ease  with  their  falchions  bright, 
And  they  lifted  their  heads  the  vines  among, 
At  the  thrilling  sounds  of  their  native  tongue. 

"  'T  is  glorious,  —  Oh,  't  is  glorious !  " 

(Glad  voices  swelled  the  lay,) 
"  The  flag  amid  the  citron-trees, 

And  the  trumps  that  wake  the  day  ; 
The  lances  bathed  in  liquid  light, 

And  the  steeds  that  sweep  the  plain ; 
'T  is  glorious,  —  Oh,  't  is  glorious ! 

On  to  the  charge  again ! " 

"  But  't  is  lonely,  —  Oh,  't  is  lonely," 

(A  voice  desponding  sighed,) 
"That  we  should  leave  our  peaceful  hearth 

For  the  battle's  stormy  tide; 


SONGS   OF   THE  FIELD.  21 

That  we  should  change  for  language  strange 

Fond  words  Ave  understand ! 
'T  is  lonely,  —  Oh,  't  is  lonely,  — 

This  march  through  foreign  land." 

"  Nay,  glorious,  —  Oh,  't  is  glorious  !  " 

(Rang  that  exulting  cry,) 
"  To  mark  the  floating  of  the  stripes 

Amid  the  battle  sky ! 
Beside  the  eagle's  glistening  crest, 

To  watch  its  proud  career, 
And  with  an  arm  above  the  rest, 

To  strike  mid  shout  and  cheer." 

"'T.is  lonely,  — Oh,  'tis  lonely," 

(Still  sighed  that  yearning  heart,) 
"  All  day  we  hear  the  roll  that  tells 

How  human  hopes  depart ;  * 
Lo !  cross  his  hands  upon  his  breast 

Which  beat,  like  yours,  for  fame, 
And  bear  him  to  his  place  of  rest, — 

A  grave  without  a  name." 

And  the  song  was  hushed  on  the  evening  breeze, 
As  the  day  grew  dim  through   the  plantain-trees ; 

**  That  more  perished  by  sickness  than  by  the  sword,  during  the 
sojourn  of  the  American  army  in  Mexico,  is  a  fact  too  well  substan 
tiated  to  be  refuted.  Accidentally  passing,  one  morning,  the  hospi 
tal  at  Camargo,  the  author  counted  the  remains  of  eight  soldiers, 
who  had  died  the  night  previous,  placed  side  by  side  on  the  portico 
of  the  building,  awaiting  .interment. 


22  VOICES   OF  THE  BOEDER. 

And  the  brows  which  were  lit  by  the  sunset  west, 
On  the  palm-leaf  pillows  drooped  down  in  rest, 
Some  to  recall  their  native  sky  — 
Some  to  dream  of  victory. 

CAMP  NEAR  THE  RlO   GltAUDE, 

December,  18i6. 


LANDING   OF    THE   FIRST  AMERICAN 
LINE   AT  VERA   CRUZ, 

MARCH   9,   1847. 

[AT  the  signal  "Land,"  telegraphed  from  the  flagship  of  the 
commanding  general,  the  surf-boats,  which  had  been  previously 
freighted  with  the  troops  of  the  first  line,  consisting  of  several  regi 
ments  of  artillery,  approached  the  shore.  They  were  covered  by 
light-draughted  gunboats  anchored  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of 
the  beach.  Meanwhile,  as  if  for  her  own  amusement,  the  inimita 
ble  little  steamer  Spitfire,  commanded  by  the  intrepid  Captain 
Tatnell,  shipped  her  anchor,  rounded  to,  and  threw  her  shells  at 
the  great  Castle  of  San  Juan  d'Ulloa,  like  a  child  at  play  casting 
its  marbles  at  the  fortress  of  a  giant.  The  castle  roared  back  an 
angry  reply,  but  did  not  succeed  in  inflicting  any  punishment  upon 
the  tantalizing  aggressor. 

Soon  a  prolonged  shout  from  the  "  Army  afloat  "  announced  the 
unfurling  of  the  American  flag  on  the  enemy's  shore,  where  the 
excited  soldiery  were  seen  dashing  from  the  boats,  unmindful  of 
the  surf,  in  their  earnestness  to  form  and  rally  around  the  Star- 
spangled  "Banner.] 

THE  signal-flag  is  in  the  sky  ! 

Ten  thousand  hearts  are  beating  high ! 

Ye  of  the  foremost  line,  draw  nigh  ; 

Huzza ! 
"  Prepare  to  land !  "  —  take  heed  —  stand  by  ! 

Huzza ! 


24  VOICES  OF  THE  BORDER. 

The  surf-boats  touch  the  ship's  tall  side, 
Along  the  lee  they  smoothly  ride  ; 
Impatient  waits  the  gallant  guide  ; 

Huzza ! 
Down,  down,  descend  with  rapid  stride  ! 

Huzza ! 

Ye  gallant  men  of  hardy  brow, 
With  bosoms  like  the  lava's  flow, 
Be  calm,  be  cool  as  winter's  snow  ! 

Huzza ! 
Crowd  close,  sit  down  from  stern  to  prow  ! 

Huzza ! 

See  yonder  fleet  stretched  out  supine 
•  From  east  to  day's  remote  decline  ! 
What  voices  cheer,  what  bright  blades  shine ! 

Huzza  ! 

Their  eyes  are  on  ye  !  form  the  line  ! 

Huzza ! 

Now  watch  the  war-words  once  again ! 

All  eyes  upon  the  flag-ship's  main  !  • 

"  Land  !"  reads  the  signal,  "  land  "  —  't  is  plain  - 

Huzza ! 
Cast  off,  give  way  with  stalwart  strain  ! 

Huzza! 

Trim,  trim  the  boat ;  ply,  ply  the  oar  — 
The  billows  rave,  the  war-dogs  roar  — 


SONGS  OF  THE  FIELD.  25 

The  death-shells  burst  behind  —  before  — 

Huzza! 

Bend  to  the  stroke,  strain  for  the  shore  — 

Huzza ! 

The  sea-walls  shake  with  thunder  riven  ! 
Around  ye  War's  red  bolts  are  driven  ! 
Above  ye  floats  the  bird  of  heaven  ! 

Huzza ! 
Strive,  brothers,  as  ye  ne'er  have  striven  ! 

Huzza ! 

The  foremost  surf-boat  nears  the  land  — 
She  grounds  —  out  dash  the  dauntless  band  ; 
Follow,  my  boys,  with  flag  in  hand  — 

Huzza  !' 
We  breast  the  surf,  we  gain  the  sand  — 

Huzza ! 

Now  raise  the  starry  banner  high  — 

Rally  —  close  up  —  crowd  round  —  stand  by  ! 

Our  eagle  rules  the  Aztec  sky  ; 

Huzza ! 
Comrades,  one  cheer  for  victory ! 

Huzza ! 

STEAMEK  "EUDORA,"  OFF  VERA  CRUZ, 
March  9,  1847. 


THE  LADY  OF  VERA  CRUZ. 

[DURING  the  three  days'  bombardment  of  the  city  of  Vera  Cruz 
by  the  American  forces,  in  the  month  of  March,  1847,  the  Mexican 
General  Morelles,  commanding  at  the  Ca.-itle  of  San  Juan  d'Ulloa, 
which  overlooks  the  city,  was  repeatedly  applied  to  by  the  inhabi 
tants  of  the  town  to  surrender  that  stronghold,  to  prevent  further 
effusion  of  blood,  but  without  success;  and  the  terrified  citizens 
were  awaiting,  in  despair,  the  advent  of  the  storming  column, 
hourly  expected,  which  would  desolate  their  sanctuaries  and  dye 
their  hearthstones  still  deeper  with  the  hue  of  slaughter,  when, 
suddenly,  a  flag  of  truce  was  seen  Haunting  from  the  turret  of  the 
castle. 

Active  demonstrations  immediately  ceased,  and  the  signal  for  a 
parley  was  sounded.  The  result  of  this  conference  was  the  sur 
render  both  of  the  castle  and  city,  thus  saving  the  inhabitants  of 
the  beleaguered  town  from  an  experience  of  the  final  ordeal  of  arms 
which  they  so  much  dreaded.  It  was  rumored,  at  the  time,  that 
this  unexpected  acquiescence  on  the  part  of  the  commandant  of  the 
fortress  with  the  wishes  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  city,  was  owing  to 
the  sickness  of  General  Morelles,  who  had  temporarily  transferred 
his  authority  to  a  subordinate  but  more  considerate  officer.] 

"  STAY,  soldier,  stay  —  one  kind  reply  — 

One  answer  to  my  soul's  despair  ! 
When  will  the  death-shell  cease  to  fly, 

The  bullet  hurtle  through  the  air  ? 
See,  yonder,  how  the  rockets  gleam  — 

The  toppling  steeples  fall  around  — 
And  pouring  thick  its  sulphurous  stream. 

The  belching  howitz  plows  the  ground." 


SONGS   OF  THE  FIELD.  27 

"  Lady !  away  —  where  sleeps  thy  pride  ? 

Thy  gallant  lord  directs  the  field; 
Art  thou  a  true  Castilian's  bride, 

And  yet  would'st  bid  our  leader  yield? 
We  go  to  face  the  iron  hail, 

Morelles  !  is  our  battle-cry, 
One  cause  is  ours  —  no  heart  must  quail  — 

'  Morelles !  —  death  or  victory  ! ' ' 

"I  know  my  lord  sustains  the  fight, 

And  know  his  hand  will  do  its  best ; 
But  tell  him  mid  the  strife  to-night, 

His  babe  lies  wounded  on  my  breast. 
Behold !  is  't  not  a  gentle  child  ? 

Once  with  its  locks  he  loved  to  play  ; 
Last  eve  within  his  arms  it  smiled  — 

He  kissed  it  as  he  rode  away ; 

"  But  now,  alas  !  it  smiles  no  more, 

Its  cheek  is  pale  and  wild  its  brain ; 
See  here !  its  robes  are  dark  with  gore  — 

Soldier  !  —  and  must  I  plead  in  vain  ? 
He  hears  me  not  —  man  scorns  to  hear 

Or  mother's  wail  or  infant's  cry  — 
And  hark  !  —  again  that  dreadful  cheer ! 

'  Morelles !  —  death  or  victory  ! ' ' 

She  sank  before  the  image  dim, 
Of  her  to  earth  a  God  who  gave  : 


28  VOICES  OF  THE  BORDER. 

"  Mother !  through  thce  I  plead  to  Him  — 
Son  of  the  Virgin  !     Jesu,  save  !  " 

Straight  rings  a  trumpet  on  the  blast, 
The  "  parley  "  sounds  upon  the  air, 

Up  runs  the  white  flag  to  the  mast: 

Indulgent  Heaven  has  heard  her  prayer. 

CAMP  BEFORE  VERA  CRUZ, 
27th  March,  1847. 


THE   VICTOR'S    DREAM. 

[SUGGESTED  on  reading  a  paragraph  in  a  city  paper  to  the  pur 
port  that  the  veteran  Comniaiider-in-Chief  (Lieut.  General  Scott), 
soon  after  his  return  from  Mexico,  was  observed  to  have  dropped, 
apparently,  into  a  slight  doze,  during  the  performance  of  divine 
service  in  one  of  the  cathedrals.] 

HE  sleeps !  his  brow  of  care 

Upon  his  hand  is  prest ; 
Unconscious  of  the  public  stare, 
The  heart,  whose  burdens  few  could  bear, 

At  length  consents  to  rest. 

Closed  are  the  victor's  eyes  ! 

Soften  the  organ's  strain  ! 
He  dreams ;  hush !  hark !  his  spirit  flies, 
On  clouded  wings  of  crimson  dyes, 

To  Cerro  Gordo's  plain. 

For  him  revives  once  more 

The  battle's  glorious  hour, 
He  hears  the  cannon's  thunder  roar, 
And  sees,  afar,  the  red  rain  pour 

From  stern  D'Ulloa's  tower. 

He  waves  his  flaming  brand 
On  Cherubusco's  height, 


30  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

And  where,  amid  his  chosen  band, 
Chapultepec,  against  his  hand, 
In  vain  arrays  her  might ; 

Again  the  gauntlet  flings 

At  the  old  Aztec  walls, 
While  fierce  and  far  the  war-cry  rings, 
Deep  echoed  from  the  "  Mill  of  Kings,"  * 

To  Montezuma's  halls. 

Shattered  beneath  his  blows 

Yawns  the    Garita  wide, 
While  calmly,  where  the  life-stream  flows, 
Stands,  like  a  prince  above  his  foes, 

The  victor  in  his  pride. 

He  sleeps !  chant  soft  the  air ! 

Shut  out  the  sunlight's  gleam  ! 
See  on  his  brow  the  lines  of  care  — 
Breathe  low  !  for  him  is  slumber  rare  — 

Break  not  the  conqueror's  dream. 

#  Holino  del  Bey. 


THE    SOLDIER'S    DIRGE. 

"  Toll  not  the  bell  of  death  for  me 
When  I  am  dead." 

OH!  toll  no  bell 

When  I  am  gone. 
Let  not  a  bugle  swell 
The  mournful  tale  to  tell ; 

But  let  the  drum 
With  hollow  roll, 

Tell  when  the  angels  come 
To  take  my  soul: 

And  let  the  banner,  borne  before  me, 
Wave  in  azure  glory  o'er  me, 

When  I  am  gone. 

Oh !  shed  no  tear 

When  I  am  gone. 
Unmanly  't  is  to  hear 
Sobs  at  a  soldier's  bier ; 

But  let  the  peal, 
Solemn  and  slow, 

From  minute-gun  reveal, 
That  I  am  low  : 

And  with  no  costly  pomp  deride  me,. 
But  lean  on  arms  reversed  beside  me, 

When  I  am  gone. 


SONG  OF  THE   FIELD. 

ROLL  !   roll  !     How  gladly  swell  the  distant  notes, 
From  where  on  high  yon  streaming  pennon  floats  ! 

Roll !  roll !     On  gorgeously  they  come, 
With  plumes  low  stooping  on  their  winding  way, 
And  lances  glancing  in  the  sun's  bright  ray. 
What  do  ye  there,  my  merry  comrades,  say  ? 

We  beat  the  gathering  drum  : 
'T  is  this  which  gives  to  mirth  a  lighter  tone, 
To  the  young  soldier's  cheek  a  deeper  glow ; 
When  stretched  upon  his  grassy  couch  alone, 
It  steals  upon  his  ear  —  this  martial  call 
Prompts  him  to  dream  of  merry  war,  with  all 
Its  pageantry  and  show. 

Roll !   roll !     What  is  it  that  ye  beat  ? 

We  sound  the  charge  —  on  with  the  courser  fleet ! 
Where  amid  columns  red  War's  eagles  fly, 

We  swear  to  do  or  die. 

'T  is  this  which  feeds  the  fires  of  Fame  with  breath, 
Which  steels  the  soldier's  heart  to  deeds  of  death, 

And  when  his  hand, 

Fatigued  with  slaughter,  pauses  o'er  the  slain, 
'T  is  this  which  prompts  him  madly  once  again 

To  seize  the  bloody  brand. 


SONGS  OF  THE   FIELD.  33 

Roll !  roll !     Brothers,  what  do  ye  here, 

Slowly  and  sadly  as  ye  pass  along, 

With  your  dull  march  and  low  funereal  song  ? 

Comrade,  we  bear  a  bier ! 

I  saw  him  fall : 

And  as  he  lay  beneath  his  steed,  mcthought, 
(Strange   how   the   mind   such   fancy  should   have 

wrought) 

That  had  he  died  beneath  his  native  skies, 
Perchance  some  gentle  bride  had  closed  his  eyes, 

And  wept  beside  his  pall. 


LINES    ON    THE    BURIAL    OF    A    WEST 
POINT    CADET. 

I  STOOD  beside  him  while  the  sun 

Was  sinking  in  the  west, 
Pouring  its  fading  beams  upon 

Banner  and  glittering  crest. 
Save  from  his  cheek  no  passers  by 

His  boyhood  could  discern, 
For  martial  fire  was  in  his  eye, 

His  brow  like  manhood  stern. 

I  stood  beside  him,  and  I  drew 

A  veil  of  gauze  away  ; 
His  eyes  were  closed,  cold  clammy  dew 

Upon  his  forehead  lay. 
Around  his  form  I  saw  them  twine 

A  shroud  in  many  a  fold  ; 
I  took  his  listless  hand  in  mine  — 

'T  was  cold  —  't  was  icy  cold. 

I  stood  beside  him  when  they  bore 

His  body  to  the  tomb  ; 
Waving  amid  the  train  I  saw 

Banner  and  bending  plume. 


SONGS   OF  THE  FIELD.  35 

Onward  they  moved  with  voices  dumb, 

To  music  slow  and  drear : 
Heavily  rolled  the  muffled  drum, 

Heavily  groaned  the  bier. 

I  stood  beside  him,  when  they  lowered 

His  coffin  in  the  ground, 
I  heard  the  grating  of  the  cord, 

The  falling  clods  resound. 
I  saw  his  comrades  round  him  stnnd, 

The  parting  looks  they  gave ; 
I  heard  the  voice  of  low  command,  — 

The  volley  o'er  the  grave. 

I  stood  above  him  while  the  sun 

Was  sinking  in  the  west ; 
I  saw  a  stone  engraved  upon, 

To  mark  his  place  of  rest. 
I  saw  the  long  grass  waving  high, 

I  heard  the  wind's  deep  moan, 
It  seemed  to  whisper  with  a  sigh, 

He  sleeps  alone,  —  alone. 


WAR  SONG  OF  ERIN. 

CHILDREN  of  Erin,  come   forth   from  your   moun 
tains  ! 

The  track  of  the  Lord  of  the  Desert  is  there, 
He  hath  trod  on  your  altars,  polluted  your  foun 
tains, 

Come,  kneel  at  the  feet  of  the  Virgin  and  swear 
By  the  dark  cloud  of  battle, 

Which  hangs  round  the  foe, 
By  the  hollow  death-rattle, 

Where  bolt  leaves  the  bow, 

To  sheathe  not  the  steel  till  the  spoiler  shall  flee 
From  the  land  of  the    shamrock,   the  soil  of  the 
free. 

Wales  at  the  sound  of  his  angry  voice  shaketh, 

Scotland  shrinks  back  at  the  crown  on  his  brow, 
But  when  the  proud  bosom  of  Erin's  son  quaketh, 
Refuse,  Holy  Mother,  thy  aid  to  his  vow  : 
By  the  mercy  that  shieldeth, 

The  fallen  in  strife, 
By  the  valor  that  yieldeth, 
The  sword  but  with  life, 

To  sheathe  not  the  steel  till  the  spoiler  shall  flee 
From  the  land  of  the  shamrock,  the  soil    of  the 
free. 


WAR  SONG  OF  FREEDOM. 

CHARGE  !  while  the  trumpet  yet  swells  in  the  blast, 
The  banners  are  waving  —  the  war-steeds  fly  past ! 
On  !  for  the  blade  of  the  foeman  is  flashing 

As  bright  as  the  meteor  that  falls  from  the  sky ! 
On  !  for  the  bayonet  with  breastplate  is  clashing 

As  wild  as  the  forest  when  whirlwinds  rush  by  ! 
Charge  !  while  the  trumpet  yet  rings  in  the  blast, 
The  banners  are  waving,  the  war-steeds  fly  past. 

The  war-steeds  are  fallen,  they  sleep  in  their  gore, 
The  voice  of  the  riders  will  cheer  them  no  more. 
For  the  Genius  of  Freedom  at  midnight  descended, 

And  whispered  her  name  in  the  ear  of  the  foe. 
And  when  the  charmed  sound  with  the  battle-shout 
blended, 

He  bowed  like  the  reed  or  he  fled  like  the  roe. 
The  war-steeds  are  fallen,  they  sleep  in  their  gore. 
The  voice  of  the  riders  will  cheer  them  no  more. 


THE   DEAD   WARRIOR. 

morning  sun  is  shining  bright  upon  the  bat 
tle  plain, 

And  still  thou  sleep'st.  Wake,  warrior,  wake,  and 
mount  thy  steed  again  ! 

His  bristling  mane  redeemed  from  gore  is  floating 
free  and  fast 

Upon  the  breeze  as  it  was  wont  before  the  battle 
blast. 

Thrice  hath  the  war-peal  thundered  on  since  thou 
hast  sunk  to  rest,  — 

Did'st  thou  not  hear  it  in  thy  dream  and  grasp 
thy  fallen  crest? 

And  thrice  the  banner  of  the  foe  hath  swept  in 
mockery  by,  — 

Did  not  the  gleaming  of  its  stars  arrest  thy  glaz 
ing  eye  ? 

The  charger  waits  his  rider's  voice  —  impatient 
for  the  rein  ; 

A  foeman  speaks,  Oh,  warrior,  wake,  and  mount 
thy  steed  again  !  " 

"Ah,  noble  foeman,    cease    thine    aid,"    a  weeping 

mother  sung, 
While    sadly  on   the   sighing  winds   the   mournful 

music  rung. 


SONGS   OF  THE  FIELD.  39 

"  Ah,  noble  foeman,  cease  thine  aid  and  hush  thy 

voice  of  cheer ! 
Thou  can'st  not  wake  my  warrior  boy  who  sleeps 

in  silence  here. 
I  've  combed  his  flowing  flaxen  hair  and  from  it 

O 

wiped  the  dew  ; 
Come,  gaze  upon  the  lofty  brow  which  in  the  strife 

ye  knew, 
And  if  thy  bosom  e'er  hath  burned  a  warrior's  joys 

to  know, 
Oh !  read    them  on    that   marble    cheek    and  in  a 

mother's  woe. 
My   boy,  they    said    that    Fame  would    twine    the 

laurel  green  for  thee ; 
Alas !  alas  !  but  she  hath  left  the  cypress  sear  for 

me." 


THE  ASSEMBLY. 

HATCK  !  't  is  the  trumpet's  call 

Booms  o'er  the  sea ! 
Crowd  for  your  banners,  all, 

Sons  of  the  free  ! 
Send  the  hoarse  battle-yell 

Back  to  the  main ! 
Arm  for  the  citadel ! 

Arm  for  the  plain  ! 

War  from  his  battle-cloud 

Beckons  his  hand  ; 
Wove  is  the  crimson  shroud, 

Drawn  be  the  brand. 
Up  !   from  the  mount  and  glen, 

Forest  and  ford, 
Rally  !    ye  free-born  men, 

Arm  with  the  sword ! 

Omens  are  gathering 

Fast  o'er  the  lea ; 
Red  is  the  eagle's  wing, 

Restless  the  sea. 
When  the  mast  quivereth 

Heed  ye  the  storm, 
Arm  mid  the  trumpet's  breath, 

Marshal  and  form  ! 


THE  WARRIOR  BARD. 

UP  from  his  harp  the  minstrel  sprung 

And  drew  his  shining  blade  ; 
"  I  cannot  sing  as  once  I  sung, 

Nor  play  as  once  I  played. 
An  omen  strange  invests  my  soul, 

And  breaks  its  wonted  dream, 
I  hear  far  off  the  war-bolt  roll, 

I  see  the  red  brand  gleam. 

While  swift  amid  the  dark'ning  sky, 

As  hoarse  the  trumpet  sings, 
There  seems  an  eagle  rushing  by, 

With  blood  upon  his  wings. 
Jt  is  no  dream  —  no  mocking  sight  — 

It  is  no  mind-wrought  spell  — 
Come  from  thy  sheath,  thou  vassal  bright, 

And  smooth  my  war-path  well ! 

Where  floats  amid  the  battle  storm 

Yon  emblem  of  the  free, 
There  in  the  foeman's  life-blood  warm 

I  '11  trace  my  name  with  thee." 
He  said  —  and  left  the  peaceful  plain 

To  seek  the  hostile  shore, 
But  e'er  his  harp  was  tuned  again, 

He  fell  to  rise  no  more. 


SONG  OF  THE   DRAGOON. 

OUR  march  is  like  the  thunder  gust ! 

We  prostrate  where  we  pass, 
And  broader  is  the  trail  we  leave 

Along  the  tangled  grass. 
From  North  to  South  we  range  the  wood, 

We  tread  the  wilds  afar, 
We  thread  the  brake,  we  swim  the  flood, 

Onward  !  Huzza,  huzza  ! 

Our  halt  is  where  the  prairie  wolf 

Barks  at  the  grizzly  bear, 
And  every  robe  we  lie  upon 

The  buffalo  must  spare. 
Break  not,  my  boys,  the  squadron's  line, 

Down  with  the  forest  spar ! 
Cut  with  your  swords  the  tangled  vine  ! 

Onward  !     Huzza,  huzza  ! 

Our  steeds  are  like  ourselves,  my  boys, 

Born  for  a  martial  train, 
Fearless  and  strong  they  prance  along, 

And  yet  they  heed  the  rein. 
Then  let  the  merry  bugle  sound, 

We  '11  follow  Freedom's  star 
For  battle,  or  for  hunting-ground, — 

Onward  !     Huzza,  huzza  ! 


THE  WAR-DRUM. 

THE  war-drum  beats  throughout  the  land 

The  red  man  swore  to  yield, 
A  thousand  braves  have  drawn  the  brand, 

Go  arm  ye  for  the  field. 
And  let  in  words  of  crimson  dye 

Each  flag  one  motto  claim,  — 
We  greet  no  friend  but  Victory, 

We  fear  no  foe  but  Shame. 

The  tawny  hunter  laughs  in  scorn, 

And  taunts  ye  to  the  plain, 
"  The  knife  is  red  —  the  scalp  is  torn, 

Ye  dare  riot  seek  your  slain." 
And  is  it  thus,  ye  freemen  wed, 

Defenders  of  the  right  ? 
Comrades !  arise  and  seek  your  dead  ; 

Go  arm  ye  for  the  fight. 

Where  is  the  spirit  of  the  past? 

The  Chivalry  of  yore  ? 
Where  are  the  whirlwinds  of  the  blast, 

The  hearts  your  Father's  bore  ? 
Where  are  they  ?     Comrades,  they  are  here, 

Up,  rally,  one  and  all, 


44  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

Rise  and  avenge  the  orphan's  tear  — 
Avenge  a  Prater's  fall.* 

*  Avenge  a  Frazer's  fall.  Alluding  to  Major  Frazer,  a  much- 
esteemed  officer  of  the  Third  Artillery,  who  fell  at  Dade's  Mas 
sacre,  which  took  place  on  the  road  from  Tampa  Bay  to  Fort  King, 
Florida,  December  28th,  1835. 

Several  particulars  of  this  disastrous  affair  were  gleaned  from 
the  lips  of  one  of  the  survivors,  a  soldier  by  the  name  of  Sprague. 
The  statement, given  nearly  in  his  own  words,  is  as  follows:  — 

"  We  left  Tampa  Bay  for  Fort  King  on  Christmas  morning. 
The  command  consisted  of  three  companies  of  Artillery,  under 
Major  Dade,  armed  as  Infantry,  with  the  exception  of  a  small  field- 
piece,  taken  along  as  a  precautionary  measure  in  case  of  an  attack, 
although,  owing  to  our  numbers,  little  danger  of  an  assault  was  an 
ticipated.  For  the  first  two  days  nothing  occurred  to  excite  our 
apprehensions,  but  on  the  third  day  of  the  route,  as  the  troops, 
marching  in  loose  order,  were  approaching  a  dense  wood  which 
skirted  the  road,  we  were  suddenly  startled  by  the  war-whoop,  fol 
lowed  by  a  severe  fire  from  the  Indians,  who  were  concealed  behind 
the  trunks  of  trees,  and  also  among  the  branches. 

"  A  portion  of  the  guard,  which  preceded  the  wagons,  together 
with  Major  Frazer  who  was  also  in  advance,  was  shot  down  by  the 
first  volley,  and  the  remainder  retreated  to  the  main  body  which,  as 
soon  as  it  could  be  brought  up,  rallied  in  front  of  the  baggage  train 
and  returned  the  fire. 

"  The  Indians,  in  no  wise  intimidated  by  the  display  of  our  men, 
then  came  out  from  their  hiding  places  and  attacked  us  in  force. 

"  The  fight  raged  for  several  hours,  and,  owing  to  the  superior 
number  of  the  assaulting  party,  we  should  probably  at  that  time 
have  been  worsted,  had  it  not  been  for  the  effective  fire  from  the 
field-piece,  which  so  disconcerted  the  enemy  that  he  was  forced  to 
retire.  After  the  savages  had  fled  we  commenced  calling  the  roll, 
when  it  was  found  that  at  least  one  half  of  the  command  was  either 
killed  or  wounded.  Major  Dade  had  fallen  soon  after  the  death  of 
Major  Frazer. 

"  At  this  juncture  had  a  retreat  been  ordered,  it  is  quite  possible 
that  the  remainder  of  the  command  might  have  readied  Tampa 


SONGS   OF   THE  FIELD.  45 

Bay  without  further  molestation,  but  the  few  surviving  officers 
would  not  listen  to  the  proposition ;  so  we  commenced  fortifying 
ourselves  within  a  hollow  square  constructed  of  logs  and  such 
quantities  of  brush-wood  as  could  be  made  available  for  that  pur 
pose. 

"  We  had  scarcely  arranged  our  defenses  when  the  Indians  again 
appeared  —  this  time  accompanied  by  a  large  body  of  negroes  — 
and  completely  surrounded  us. 

"  Notwithstanding  the  desperate  resistance  of  the  troops,  the 
enemy  gained  the  stockade,  climbed  over  the  breastworks,  and 
commenced  an  indiscriminate  slaughter  of  every  one  within  the 
inclosure. 

"  Those  disabled  by  wounds,  as  well  as  those  who  continued  to 
make  a  show  of  resistance,  were  inhumanly  butchered,  the  negroes 
outvieing  the  Indians  in  their  deeds  of  atrocity.  Assistant  Surgeon 
Gatlin,  Lieutenants  Mudge  and  Basinger  were  the  last  murdered. 

"•  When  the  savages  approached  Lieutenant  Basinger,  where  he 
lay  wounded,  he  ruisecl  himself  on  his  elbow  and  plead  for  life 
piteoush7,  but  was  answered  with  imprecations  by  one  of  the 
negroes,  who  buried  his  hatchet  in  his  brains. 

"  While  the  work  of  slaughter  was  progressing,  although  severely 
wounded  myself,  I  retained  sufficient  composure  to  remain  perfectly 
quiet.  The  enemy,  no  doubt  imagining  that  I  was  dead,  passed 
over  without  molesting  me.  Two  of  my  comrades  made  use  of  a 
similar  artifice,  and  in  this  manner  like  myself  succeeded  in  saving 
their  lives.  Soon  after  the  savages  had  departed,  my  two  friends 
joined  me,  and  creeping  cautiously  over  the  bodies  of  the  slain,  we 
managed  to  gain  a  neighboring  swamp,  where  we  remained  nearly 
waist-deep  in  water  throughout  the  night.  The  next  morning, 
perceiving  no  signs  of  the  Indians,  we  crept  out  and  proceeded 
cautiously  on  our  journey  back  to  Tampa  Bay. 

''  The  coldness  of  the  water  in  the  swamp  had  staunched  the  bleed 
ing  of  our  wounds,  so  that  we  were  enabled  to  travel  along  slowly 
—  gathering  palmetto-roots  and  berries  for  food  along  the  road, 
until  we  again  reached  the  Bay,  bringing  with  us  the  first  and  last 
intelligence  ever  received  from  the  command  after  its  departure 
from  that  station." 

Such  is  a  brief  outline  of  some  of  the  incidents  connected  with 
this  unfortunate  expedition,  as  related  by  one  of  the  suflerers  who, 


46  VOICES   OF   THE  BORDER. 

after  the  massacre,  was  assigned  to  the  same  company  which  the 
writer  of  this  notice  commanded. 

It  may  not  be  uninteresting  to  add  that  a  monument  commemo 
rative  of  the  trngic  event,  whereon  are  engraved  the  names  of  the 
fallen  officers,  has  been  recently  erected  on  the  classic  grounds 
appertaining  to  the  Military  Academy  at  West  Point. 


THE  ARMY  IN  THE  FIELD. 

I  NEVER  see  a  shadowy  plume 

Upon  a  soldier's  crest, 
But  I  think  of  you,  my  gallant  braves, 

Amid  the  far  Southwest. 
I  never  hear  the  fife's  shrill  notes 

Amid  the  city's  hum, 
But- 1  see  your  serried  columns  form 

Where  rolls  the  roaring  drum. 

A  lengthened  trail  ye  tread,  my  braves, 

And  difficult  its  sign, 
Through  hummock  and  through  everglade, 

By  marsh  and  tangled  vine. 
Your  homestead  is  the  wilderness, 

Your  canopy  the  sky, 
And  the  music  which  ye  love  the  most 

Lives  in  the  battle-cry. 

They  little  know,  who  lightly  dwell 

Upon  the  griefs  ye  bear, 
The  task  and  toil  —  oh,  weary  ones  — 

Which  ye  are  doomed  to  share. 
'Tis  yours  to  quench  the  feudal  fire, 

The  elements  prolong  ; 


48  VOICES   OF  THE   BORDER. 

To  hunt  the  footsteps  of  the  fierce, 
To  wrestle  with  the  strong ; 

To  scorch  beneath  the  vernal  sun 

Amid  the  hurried  rout ; 
To  scare  the  vulture  from  his  feast 

Where  the  foremost  steed  gave  out ; 
To  seek  in  vain  for  gushing  spring 

Upon  a  sterile  waste  ; 
To  roam  amid  the  mazy  wood, 

With  the  homeward  path  effaced. 

'T  is  yours  to  scorn  what  fear  deride, 

Attempt  where  all  may  fail, 
To  stem  the  raging  of  the  tide, 

The  rushing  of  the  gale  ; 
And  when  your  hearts  of  lava  rock 

Heave  like  the  mountain  warm, 
'T  is  yours  to  roll  unto  the  shock, 

Like  the  torrent  and  the  storm. 

And  oh  !  't  is  yours,  at  midnight  hour. 

Upon  the  guarded  plain, 
To  dream  of  smiles  far,  far  away, 

Ye  ne'er  may  see  again  ; 
To  vanquish  hope,  to  purchase  fame 

With  blood  of  foe  unseen ; 
Then  find  a  grave  without  a  name 

Beneath  the  hummock  green. 
FOKT  KING,  Florida. 


THE  TRUMPET. 

WHAT  charm,  O  Trumpet,  sways  thy  breath, 

That  man  so  doats  on  thee, 
Fierce  tempter  to  the  field  of  death, 

Yet  arbiter  of  glee  ? 
And  the  Trumpet  answered  on  the  blast, 

With  its  wild  and  wildering  tone.  — 
"  I  bind  the  present  and  the  past, 

With  a  magic  all  my  own. 

"  There 's  a  charm  that   lives   for   the   vine-clad 
bower, 

And  one  for  the  sparkling  wine, 
And  one  for  the  lute,  of  a  queenly  power, 

But  a  stronger  spell  is  mine. 
I  speak  to  the  ear  of  restless  Love, 

And  his  burning  eyes  grow  dim, 
As   he   turns   from   his   bride   in  the  homestead 
grove, 

Where  impatient  she  waits  for  him. 

"  The  battle  stirreth  at  my  word 

Its  elements  of  fear ; 
Leaps  from  its  sheath  the  restless  sword, 

Flashes  the  potent  spear. 
-    4 


50  VOICES  OF  THE  BORDER. 

The  war-drum  rolls  a  wilder  call, 
And  the  bristling  columns  form  ; 

Red  streams  the  death-flag  from  the  wall, 
Rattles  the  leaden  storm. 

"  My  voice  is  o'er  the  sleeping  seas, 

And  on  the  surging  shore, 
I  sing  upon  the  rustling  breeze, 

And  I  speak  where  tempests  roar. 
The  squadron  bark  knows  not  her  own, 

Till  she  hears  my  signal  blast, 
While  the  wrecker  watcheth  for  my  tone, 

As  he  bows  by  the  bending  mast. 

"Well  did  they  heed  my  daring  call 

In  the  city  of  the  plain,* 
When  rushed  the  foemen  from  the  wall 

As  it  crumbled  o'er  the  slain. 
And  I  have  a  tone  I  yet  must  wind 

For  the  ear  of  earthful  lust, 
When  I  tear  apart  the  chains  which  bind 

The  sleeper  to  the  dust." 

*  Jericho. 


LINES  ON  A  DECEASED  COMRADE. 

WRITTEN  AT   WEST  POINT  ACADEMY. 

STILT,  as  the  dreamless  dead 

Was  the  solemn  house  of  prayer, 
Save  when  the  low  command  was  said, 
Or  the  distant  sound  of  measured  tread, 
Broke  on  the  silence  there. 

They  come,  I  see  them  now, 

With  their  plumes  of  sable  dye ; 
There  is  manhood's  pride  on  boyhood's  brow, 
And  the  bearing  proud  of  those  who  bow 
To  naught  but  the  shrine  on  high. 

Why  have  ye  gathered  here, 

Ye  of  the  youthful  band  ? 
Why  do  ye  brush  the  starting  tear, 
And  with  arms  reversed  beside  yon  bier, 

Why  do  ye  speechless  stand  ? 

I  heard  a  sullen  sigh, 

And  I  heard  a  hollow  groan, 
And  a  strain  of  music  wild  and  high, 
Like  the  voice  of  a  spirit  wailing  nigh, 

Amid  the  winds'  deep  moan. 


52  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

Aye  !  roll  the  muffled  drum, 

And  chant  the  funeral  air ! 
For  the  brow  is  cold  and  the  lips  are  dumb 
Of  him  with  whom  ye  were  wont  to  come 

To  the  holy  place  of  prayer. 

How  calm  and  still  he  lies, 

In  his  sleep  devoid  of  pain  ! 
Like  a  weary  child  he  hath  closed  his  eyes, 
And  sank  to  rest.     But  when  will  he  rise  ? 

When  will  he  wake  again  ? 

Not  when  to-morrow's  dawn 

Is  told  by  the  cannon's  roar, 
Not  when  the  bugle  winds  at  morn  : 
Like  a  wandering  bird  his  spirit  is  borne, 

To  return  to  its  home  no  more. 


THE  DREAM  OF   BATTLE. 

"WAKE,  wake!  'tis  morn,  for  the  battle-horn 

Was  to  sound  at  break  of  day, 
And  loud  and  clear  its  notes  I  hear  ; 

Wake,  warrior,  and  away ! 
Thy  falchion  bright  thou  must  dim,  brave  knight, 

With  many  a  blood-red  stain, 
Ere  the  rising  sun  which,  ye  gaze  upon 

Shall  gild  the  west  again. 
And  the  flying  feet  of  thy  charger  fleet 

Must  bound  o'er  many  a  foe, 
When  rolling  nigh  from  yonder  sky, 

The  battle-cloud  sweeps  low. 
But  the  name  of  a  maid  is  inscribed  on  thy  blade, 

And  resistless  its  flash  will  be, 
And  her  sunny-bright  hair  thy  heart  doth  wear, 

From  danger  a  charm  to  free. 
Then  awake,  'tis  morn,  for  the  battle-horn 

Was  to  sound  at  break  of  day, 
And  loud  and   clear  its  notes  I  hear ; 

Up !  warrior,  and  away." 

The  minstrel  paused,  but  still  her  eye 
Was  fixed  upon  the  sunset  sky, 
Gazing  as  if  her  spirit  drew 
An  inspiration  from  its  hue ; 


54  VOICES   OF   THE  BORDER. 

As  if  communion  she  could  share 
With  the  etherial  essence  there. 
But  when  the  sun  with  burning  crest 
Had  sunk  beneath  the  molten  west, 
And  pensive  Night  drew  o'er  the  plain 
Her  curtained  veil  of  shadowy  stain, 
As  if  partaking  of  its  hue. 
The  minstrel's  measure  saddened  too. 

"  Why,  maiden  fair,  why  roaming  there, 

Alone  on  the  battle-heath  ? 
Why  dost  thou  stray  where  the  fallen  lay 

Sleeping  the  sleep  of  death  ? 
Oh,  wild  and  lone  is  the  deep  winds'  moan, 

And  the  waning  moon  shines  drear  ! 
What  warrior  pale  in  his  gory  mail 

Resfeth  in  silence  here  ? 
Go,  weeping  maid,  the  cypress  braid, 

It  must  be  thy  bridal  wreath, 
For  the  steed  at  thy  feet  was  the  steed  so  fleet, 

And  the  rider  was  crushed  beneath. 
When  the  war-blast  came  he  breathed  thy  name, 

And  I  saw  the  foeman  flee, 
And  I  saw  the  dart  as  it  pierced  his  heart, 

While  he  shouted,  '  Victory  ! ' 
Again  at  morn  the  battle-horn, 

May  sound  the  break  of  day, 
But  its  voice  of  cheer  he  will  never  hear ; 

Weep,  maiden,  and  away !  " 


SONG  OF  THE  WRECKER. 

WHEN  swiftly  glides  the  fleecy  wrack 

Athwart  the  troubled  sky, 
'Tis  ours  to  plow  the  foamy  track 

Of  billows  heaving  by  ; 
And  as  we  hear  o'er  waves  afar 

The  tempest's  rushing  wing, 
Deep  rolling  on  his  clouded  car, 

We  hail  the  Thunder-king. 

In  bondage  calm  the  morning  haze 

May  hold  the  idle  deep  ; 
We  care  not  where  the  dolphin  plays, 

Nor  where  the  mermaids  sleep. 
But  when  the  gathering  tempest  forms, 

And  wheeling  sea-birds  sing, 
High  lifted  to  the  shrine  of  storms, 

We  hail  the  Thunder-king. 

The  voice  on  shore  may  swell  its  bowers 

With  music  rich  and  bland  ; 
We  answer  not  with  notes  of  ours, 

The  melodies  of  land. 


56  VOICES   OF   THE   BORDER. 

But  when  the  god  of  ocean  wakes 

His  lyre  of  lordly  string, 
While  hoarse  the  surging  billow  breaks, 

We  hail  the  Thunder-king. 

Then  should  some  bark  bewildered  glide 

Across  our  stormy  track, 
Where  once  beguiled  the  whirling  tide 

Gives  not  its  victim  back, 
Each  stranger  knows  what  craft  are  we, 

And  waits  the  aid  we  bring, 
As  louder  than  the  lashing  sea 

We  hail  the  Thunder-king. 


THE   DYING  VOLUNTEER. 

HERE,  comrades,  rest  me  here, 

Beside  the  grassy  road  ; 
Let  yon  soft  couch,  where  Autumn  sear 
Hath  cast  her  robes  from  year  to  year, 

Receive  your  weary  load. 

Leave  me  where  breezes  play 

Mid  palm-trees  waving  high, 
And  flowers  exert  such  pleasing  sway, 
That  Death  himself  aside  might  stray, 
Forgetting  where  I  lie  ! 

Counsel  yon  leaping  stream 

To  strike  its  thunder  strain  ; 
And  let  awhile  its  billowy  gleam 
Invest  my  sight  —  that  I  may  dream 
The  battle  wakes  again ; 

That  blazing  banners  fly 

Where  steeds  impatient  stand, 

And  as  I  breathe  my  latest  sigh. 

Of  dying,  as  I  hoped  to  die, 
With  the  falchion  in  my  hand. 


58  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

For  this  I  left  my  home  — 

But  the  fevered  dream  is  past  — 
No  more  upon  my  ear  will  come 
The  war-beat  of  the  gathering  drum, 
Nor  the  trumpet's  rousing  blast. 

The  star  hath  set  in  night. 

Which  once  so  fair  did  shine, 
Wresting,  forever,  from  my  sight 
Column  deep  serried  for  the  fight, 

And  square  and  wheeling  line. 

Upon  the  battle -bed, 

While  rang  the  banner  cry, 
Gazing  upon  the  eagle  dread, 
With  his  shadowy  wings  to  the  fight  outspread. 

It  was  my  prayer  to  die  ; 

Not  thus  unwept,  alone, 

To  yield  my  failing  breath, 
Where  the  hot  day-breeze  hath  a  tone 
Accordant  with  the  fevered  groan 

Of  melancholy  death. 

Yet  not  in  vain  shall  flee 

My  life's  departing  ray ! 
Comrades,  go  tell  them  who,  like  me, 
Have  pined  to  sail  on  Glory's  sea, 

How  little  wise  are  they. 


SONGS  OF  THE  FIELD.  59 

And  mention,  as  ye  came 

Along  the  wandering  wave, 
How  on  a  spot  without  a  name, 
Far  hidden  from  the  shrine  of  Fame, 

Ye  paused  beside  my  grave. 

TAMPA  BAY,  Florida. 


LANDING  OF  THE   FLORIDA    REGULARS 
AT  TAMPA  BAY, 

OCTOBER,  1837. 

STRIKE  np  the  rattling  drum  ! 

Shake  out  the  guidon  free  ! 
Hurra !  with  succoring  bands  we  come 

Across  the  bounding  sea. 

We  near  the  hostile  shore, 

Flourish  the  bugles'  blast ! 
Our  weary  voyage  at  length  is  o'er, 

Hurra !  we  land  at  last. 

Hurra  —  hurra  —  hurra  ! 

For  yonder  tented  plain  ! 
In  grasp  of  peace  with  hands  of  war, 

We  greet  our  friends  again. 

Stand,  comrades,  on  your  lives  ! 

Fill  twice  the  wine-cup  round ! 
Pledge  once  your  homes  and  once  your  wives, 

Then  dash  it  to  the  ground. 

Perchance  that  cup  may  pass, 
Some  later  hour  again, 


SONGS  OF   THE  FIELD.  61 

And  ye  may  drink  who  Jill  that  glass, 
The  memory  of  the  slain. 

Raise  up  the  banner  high 

As  the  Grecian  held  his  targe  ! 
If  die  we  must  like  men  we  die, 

Sound  !  forward  to  the  charge. 

March  on  with  measured  tread ! 

'T  is  Glory  leads  and  Fame  — 
Our  hunter  hands  the  toils  have  spread, 

The  war-hounds  scent  the  game. 

Wait  for  the  word  —  step  light ! 

Let  not  a  breath  respire! 
Aim  to  the  left  —  the  right  — 

Aim  to  the  centre  —  fire  ! 

Hurra  —  hurra  —  hurra  ! 

I  love  the  stormy  din, 
As  fierce  and  fast,  like  waves  afar, 

The  battle  roareth  in. 

The  music  of  the  strife  — • 

The  war-bolt  flashing  by  — 
The  forfeit  death  —  the  guerdon  life  — 

Hurra  for  victory ! 


THE  WASTE  WORN. 

WEARY  and  weak  and  pale, 

He  sank  on  the  lengthened  route ; 
And  they  paused  awhile  in  the  lowly  vale, 

Where  his  fevered  frame  gave  out. 

No  gentle  hand  strewed  flowers 

Along  his  rude-made  bier, 
The  death-stained  leaves  from  the  oak's  old  bowers, 

They  scattered  with  pike  and  spear. 

Eyes  gazed  but  grew  not  dim 

Beside  his  pulseless  clay. 
Though  grief  had  treasured  depths  for  him 

In  a  fount  —  oh,  far  away  — 

Deep  buried  in  the  breast 

Of  one,  from  crowds  apart, 
Watching  with  brow  of  troubled  rest 

For  the  partner  of  her  heart. 

When,  when  will  he  return  ? 

Fond  thoughts  his  course  may  track, 
Heart  throb  and  bosom  burn  — 

But  when  will  he  come  back  ? 


SONGS   OF   THE   FIELD.  63 

When  Spring's  first  flowers  shall  fall, 

Autumn's  last  leaf  is  sear, 
Will  she  meet  his  smile  ?  will  she  hear  his  call  ? 

Oh,  ask  of  the  guarded  bier. 

Beneath  a  southern  sky, 

Without  a  hymn  or  prayer, 
They  made  a  grave  mid  the  palm-trees  high, 

And  alone  they  laid  him  there. 

No,  no  !  —  't  was  not  alone  — 

For  the  drum  gave  out  its  roll, 
And  the  woods  chimed  deep  in  an  undertone, 

A  knell  for  the  loosened  soul ; 

And  the  twilight  drew  around, 

With  its  pale  and  sickly  smile, 
And  the  stream  discoursed  in  its  rushing  sound, 

And  the  mock-bird  sang  the  while. 

Sweet  bird  of  memory  dear, 

Thy  melody  is  vain, 
He  heareth  not,  —  he  cannot  hear,  — 

When  will  he  wake  again  : 


BOYHOOD. 

I  NEVER  see  the  laughing  eyes 

Of  joyous  boys  at  play, 
But  memories  fond  within  me  rise, 

Of  childhood's  happy  day. 
To  sport  upon  the  festive  ground 

Seemed  all  I  had  to  do, 
And  when  my  comrades  laughed  around, 

My  heart  was  happy  too. 

I  seldom  cared  for  dust  and  noise, 

Or  wore  a  troubled  brow, 
But  thought  myself  with  marble  toys 

Oh,  richer  far  than  now. 
I  never  pined  for  foreign  land, 

Nor  sighed  for  distant  sea, 
The  top  which  turned  beneath  my  hand 

Had  charms  enough  for  me. 

But  now  upon  my  troubled  soul 
Come  visions  dark  and  deep, 

My  thoughts  are  where  the  billows  roll, 
And  where  the  whirlwinds  sweep. 

I  love  to  see  the  bending  mast 
Bow  down  before  the  storm, 


SONGS  OF   THE  FIELD.  65 

And  hear  amid  the  rushing  blast, 

O 

The  wing  without  a  form. 

I  wander  o'er  the  plain  of  death, 

As  through  a  lady's  bower, 
Deep  watching  for  the  battle  breath. 

As  for  a  thought  of  power. 
Alas  !  the  lesson  manhood  brings, 

And  little  understood  — 
To  leave  the  lore  of  gentle  things, 

For  toil  by  field  and  flood. 

Flow  on,  calm  blood  of  childhood,  flow ! 

Speed  not  your  current  thin  ! 
Nor  let  the  conscious  bosom  know 

The  fires  which  burn  within. 
Too  soon  will  come  the  moment  when 

Each  pulse  anew  will  start, 
And  thou,  the  purple  tide  of  men, 

Must  battle  with  the  heart. 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 

Two  voices  swelled  athwart  the  lea, 
I  listened  while  they  sang ; 

One,  soft  as  lute  upon  the  sea ; 
One,  like  the  trumpet's  clang. 

FIRST   VOICE. 

Daughter,  rest ;  no  cloud  of  sorrow 

Dews  thy  brow  with  tears  of  stain, 
Sleep  to-night  —  the  dawning  morrow 

Soon  will  smile  for  thee  again ; 
Starlight  sleeps  upon  the  water, 

Sunlight  slumbers  in  the  west, 
Close  thine  eyelids,  gentle  daughter, 

Nature's  voices  whisper  "  Rest." 

Daughter,  rest ;  I  smooth  thy  pillow, 

Lay  thy  head  upon  it,  sweet  ; 
Here  doth  never  dash  the  billow ; 

Here  the  drum  may  never  beat, 
Sight  of  war  will  ne'er  come  o'er  thee, 

Sound  of  strife  affright  thy  breast ; 
But  thy  father's  lip  before  thee, 

In  thy  dream  shall  murmer  "  Rest." 


SONGS   OF  THE  FIELD.  67 

Daughter,  rest ;  no  thorn  shall  wound  thee, 

'Mid  thy  dream  of  roses  wild, 
Mother's  arm  is  clasped  around  thee, 

Mother  rocks  her  cradled  child. 
Sleep !  the  weary  herd  is  folded, 

Drowsy  birds  have  sought  their  nest, 
Hush !  the  song  which  father  molded, 

Dies  in  silence.     Daughter,  Rest ! 

Two  voices  swelled  athwart  the  lea, 

I  listened  while  they  sang  ; 
One,  soft  as  lute  upon  the  sea  ; 

One,  like  the  trumpet's  clang. 

•*  SECOND  VOICE. 

Forward !  mid  the  battles'  hum 

Roughly  rolls  the  daring  drum  ! 
Victory,  with  hurried  breath, 

Calls  ye  from  her  mouths  of  death  ! 
War,  with  hand  of  crimson  stain, 

Warns  ye  to  the  front  again ! 
Onward !  ere  the  field  is  won, — 

Forward!  ere  the  fight  is  done. 

Forward!  raise  your  banner  high! 

Toss  its  spangles  to  the  sky! 
Let  its  eagle,  reeking  red, 

Float  above  the  foeman's  head! 
Let  its  stripes  of  red  and  white 

Blind  again  his  dazzled  sight ! 


68  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

Onward  !  ere  the  field  is  won, — 
Forward !  ere  the  fight  is  done. 

Forward  !  to  the  front  again  ! 

Lash  the  steed  and  loose  the  rein ! 
Spur  amid  the  rattling  peal ! 

Charge  amid  the  storm  of  steel ! 
O'er  the  stream  and  from  the  glen, 

Cowards  watch  the  strife  of  men  ;  * 
Onward !  ere  the  field  is  won, — 

Forward !  ere  the  fight  is  done ! 

*  Probably  alluding  to  a  certain  battle  on  the  banks  of  the 
Withlacoochie,  Florida,  where  it  was  said  certain  troops  could  not 
be  brought  into  action. 


THE   SOLDIER'S  VISION. 

FROM  his  bed  on  the  field  overshadowed  by  night, 
Where  the  living  unconscious  lay  mixed  with  the 

slain, 

'T  was  thus  that  a  soldier,  forgetting  the  fight, 
Soft  murmured  in  dreams  from  the  slumber-girt 
plain :  — 

'T  is  the  haunt  of  the  savage !  from  yonder  lone  creek 

He  gazes  unnoticed  on  pennon  and  spear ; 
'T  is  the  dew-drops  of  midnight  which  gleam  on  the 

cheek, 

And  the  bay  of  the  blood-hound   which   startles 
the  ear. 

The  steed  is  ungirt  and  the  rider  at  rest, 

Deep  lulled   by  the   tongues  of  the   many-toned 

gales, 
While  Memory's   fond  watchwords    steal    over  his 

breast, 

Like  the  voice  of  a  friend  when   the  challenger 
hails. 

But  Sleep  to  this  bosom  brings  not  the  relief 
He   is   wont   to   bestow   where   his   poppies    are 
spread ; 


70  VOICES  OF   THE  BORDER. 

O'er  my  couch  of  repose  bends  the  cypress  of  grief, 
And   my   heart's   dearest   rose-buds  lie  scattered 
and  dead. 

Those   glass-works  of  Fancy  —  the  day-dreams  of 

youth, 

Like  the  mists  of  the  morning  have  melted  away, 
While  Hope,  like  a  mock  sun,  all  bright  with  un 
truth, 
Conceals  mid  the  tempest  her  storm-fostered  ray. 

They  told  me  how  Honor  doled  gifts  from  the  sky, 
And  I  came  to  the  field  where  his  guerdons  are 
won, 

But  Fame,  like  a  falcon,  flew  wary  and  high, 
And  Glory  played  false,  as  the  battle  swept  on. 

Next  Fortune,  on  pinions  impatient  to  roam, 

Sang  softly  the  charms  of  her  gold-yielding  land, 
But   my   vision  of  wealth   proved   a    plaything   of 

foam, 

And  the  air-bubble  burst  ere  it  sailed  from  my 
hand. 

Then  Love  gently  came  to  my  slumber-sealed  eyes, 
And   I   prayed   for   the   meed  which   the  warm 
hearted  share, 

But  the   god,  when    invoked,  threw  aside   his  dis 
guise, 
And  the  herald  of  Joy  proved  a  phantom  of  care. 


SONGS   OF  THE  FIELD.  71 

Soft  hope  of  my  bosom !  bright  pledge  of  my  vow ! 
What  climate  invests  thee  —  surrounds  thee  what 

shore  ? 

I  see  not  the  light  of  thy  love-beaming  brow, 
And  I  catch  the  low  sound  of  thy  murmurs  no 
more. 

The  fall  of  thy  footstep  what  chamber  may  claim, 
Thou    dove    borne    astray   on   the    wings   of  the 
blast  ? 

E'en  the  lute,  so  vibrating  to  murmur  thy  name, 
Grows  sad,  at  the  sound,  as  a  voice  from  the  past. 

Then  the  dreamer  awoke  from  his  vision  of  care, 
And  he  saw  but  the   moon   shining  low   in   the 

west, 
While  the  wing  of  the  night-wind  played  loose  in 

his  hair, 

And  the  palm -leafs  deep  shadow  lay  hushed  on 
his  breast. 

IN  THE  FIELD,  Florida,  1838. 


THE   SOLDIER'S   REQUIEM* 

A  SWORD  unclaimed  and  a  crest ! 
Did  ye  not  hear  that  muffled  knell 
Mid  the  measured  pause  of  a  trumpet's  swell  ? 

They  bear  him  to  his  rest. 

Dreary  and  wild  and  deep  ! 
Why  soften  the  voice  of  your  clarion  clear  ? 
Why  smother  the  roll  at  the  guarded  bier  ? 

His  is  a  dreamless  sleep. 

Give  to  your  bugles  breath ! 
Ye  will  rouse  him  not  from  his  bannered  shroud ! 
Ye  will  wrest  him  not  from  his  victor  proud ! 

A  conqueror  strong  is  Death. 

Onward  and  on,  but  slow  ! 
Steady  and  slow,  it  is  weight  ye  hold  — 
Precious  it  lies  'neath  the  flag's  deep  fold  — 

Weight  that  ye  little  know. 

There  was  a  spirit  nurst ! 
There  was  a  heart  which  beat  for  fame, 

*  Written  upon  the  death  of  Lieutenant  JOSEPH  KITNER,  son  of 
Governor  Ritner  of  Pennsylvania. 


SONGS   OF  THE  FIELD.  73 

A  hand  which  struck  for  a  soldier's  name  ; 
On,  with  the  manly  dust ! 

Comrade  !  thine  eye  is  dim  ; 
No  more  will  its  drooping  lid  be  raised ; 
Alas  !  that  the  lute  thou  oft  hast  praised 

Should  chant  thy  requiem  hymn ! 

Thy  voice  will  sound  no  more, 
As  in  cadenced  thunder  once  it  fell, 
When  the  soldier's  shout  and  the  Indian's  yell 

Thrilled  the  Wisconsin  shore. 

No  more  the  jest  will  stray, 
Nor  the  smile  of  glee  nor  the  joyous  song 
From  thy  lip,  as  the  heavy  route  wears  long 

On  the  soldier's  weary  way. 

Comrade,  thy  task  is  done  ! 
Pennon  and  plume  beside  thee  meet ; 
They  move  to  the  roll  of  the  last  retreat 

Which  marks  thy  setting  sun. 

Give  to  your  bugles  breath ! 
Ye  can  wake  him  not  from  his  bannered  shroud  ! 
Ye  can  wrest  him  not  from  his  victor  proud  ! 

A  conqueror  strong  is  Death. 


COME,  LET  US   DIE   LIKE   MEN. 

ROLL  out  the  banner  on  the  air, 

And  draw  your  swords  of  flame, 
The  gathering  squadrons  fast  prepare 

To  take  the  field  of  fame ! 
In  serried  ranks,  your  columns  dun 

Close  up  along  the  glen  ; 
If  we  must  die  ere  set  of  sun, 

Come,  let  us  die  like  men. 

We  seek  the  foe  from  night  till  morn, 

A  foe  we  do  not  see. 
Go,  roll  the  drum  and  wind  the  horn, 

And  tell  him  here  are  we. 
In  idle  strength  we  wait  the  prey 

That  lurks  by  marsh  and  fen; 
But  should  he  strike  our  lines  to-day, 

Come,  let  us  die  like  men. 

'T  is  not  to  right  a  kinsman's  wrongs, 
With  bristling  arms  we  come, 

Our  sisters  sing  their  household  songs 
Far  in  a  peaceful  home. 

We  battle  for  a  stranger's  hall, 
The  savage  in  his  den, 


SONGS   OF   THE   FIELD.  75 

If  in  such  struggle  we  must  fall, 
Come,  let  us  die  like  men. 

Remember,  boys,  that  Mercy's  dower 

Is  life  to  him  who  yields, 
Remember  that  the  hand  of  power 

Is  strongest  when  it  shields  : 
Keep  honor,  like  your  sabres,  bright, 

Shame  coward  fear  —  and  then 
If  we  must  perish  in  the  fight  — 

Oh,   we  will  die  like  men  ! 

FORT  MONIAC,  Florida, 
Dec.  16th,  1838. 


THE   WIND   SPIRIT. 

SHEATHED  was  the  sabre's  restless  gleam, 

And  the  trump  had  ceased  to  play, 
As  the  day-star  shed  its  last  red  beam 

On  the  couch  where  a  soldier  lay: 
Soft  citrons  sighed  on  the  Southern  air, 

But  what  was  their  breath  to  him  ? 
Toil  drooping  weighed  on  his  brow  of  care, 

And  his  drowsy  eyes  grew  dim. 

"Oh,  let  me  sleep  one  little  hour, 

I  'm  weary  of  the  tented  ground  ! 
The  breezes  kiss  the  nodding  flower, 

And  softly  steals  the  riplet's  sound ; 
The  mock-birds  sing  mid  rustling  trees, 

With  lazy  tread  the  insects  creep, 
While  drowsily  the  hum  of  bees 

Subdues  the  field.     Ah,  let  me  sleep ! 

"  Oh,  let  me   sleep,  once  more  to  fly 
Where  first  in  early  years  I  sung ! 

I  cannot  brook  this  Southern  sky, 
I  cannot  love  the  Southrons'  tongue  ; 

But  bear  me  to  my  native  isle, 

Which  wild  the  lashing  billows  sweep,  — 


SONGS   OF   THE  FIELD.  77 

There  once  for  me  were  lips  of  smile,  — 
Where  dwell  they  now  ?     Ah !   let  me  sleep  ! 

"  Oh,  let  me  sleep ;  for  in  the  brief 

Bright  hour  of  trance  which  dreams  bestow, 
I  hear  again  the  rustling  leaf 

That  whirls  around  my  home  of  snow  ; 
I  see  the  pine  of  mountain  birth, 

Still  green  above  the  hoary  steep, 
And  at  the  household's  blazing  hearth 

I  breathe  a  name,  —  Ah  !   let  me  sleep." 

And  he  slept  —  he  slept  —  and  the  North  wind 
came 

From  his  home  in  a  Northern  land, 
Deep  whispering  many  a  cherished  name, 

O'er  the  brow  which  its  pinions  fanned ; 
And  the  dreamer  hailed  the  well-known  sound, 

As  the  voice  of  an  absent  friend, 
And    he    questioned    the   breeze,  as    it   whirled 
around, 

Of  the  forms  it  had  left  behind. 

"  Wind  of  the  North !  whose  pinions  high 

Against  my  forehead  play, 
What  seek'st  thou  mid  a  Southern  sky, 

And  the  battle's  red  array  ? 
Yet  welcome  from  thy  snow-wreathed  hill, 

To  a  sultry  clime  like  ours, 


78  VOICES  OF  THE  BORDER.  ^ 

Come,  mingle  a  gust,  thou  minion  chill, 
With  the  breath  of  the  palm-leaf  bowers. 

"  Full  well  I  knew  thy  car  was  near, 

Ere  rolled  its  thunder  loud, 
For  I  saw  thy  frost-white  charioteer 

Careering  o'er  the  cloud. 
Come  gently  to  my  fevered  brow, 

With  genial  freshness  come  ; 
And  tell  me,  Wind,  but  whisper  low, 

When  did'st  thou  pass  my  home  ?  " 

"Thy  home?  —  since  morn  I  swept  beside 

The  arch  of  its  portal  high, 
Where  I  saw  a  bride  with  a  brow  of  pride, 

And  a  tear  was  in  her  eye." 
"And  did  ye  not  catch  that  truant  tear 

Ere  it  fell  at  the  festive  board  ?  " 
"  I  did  —  and  she  bade  me  drop  it  here  — 

On  the  heart  of  her  absent  lord." 

"What  saw'st  thou  next?" — "A  child  at  play 

I  saw  by  the  hearth  of  glee." 
"  And  did  ye  not  pause  upon  the  way, 

To  kiss  its  brow  for  me  ?  " 
"  I  lingered  an  hour,  well  pleased  the  while, 

Lifting  her  tresses  bright, 
And  wasting  my  breath  on  her  lips  of  smile  — 

Hence  I  am  late  to-night." 


SONGS   OF  THE   FIELD.  79 

Wind  of  the  North,  thy  wings  unfold ! 

Back  to  my  home  return, 
And  tell  her  that  thy  kiss  is  cold, 

But  there  are  lips  which  burn,  — 
Whose  every  breath  along  her  cheek 

Such  gentle  tales  would  tell 
As  whispering  fancy  loves  to  speak ;  — 

Wind  of  the  North,  farewell !  " 


THE    GATHERING. 

SOUND  ye  the  tocsin  from  Maine  to  Missouri, 

Light  the  red  signals  and  toll  the  alarm ! 
Wake  the  war-hounds  with  the  lash  of  the  Fury, 
Blood  is  the  cry,  and  the  watchword  is  Arm ! 
Burst  ye  asunder 
The  portals  of  thunder, 
Which   masked   the  stern  god   in   his  temple  *    so 

long, 

And  on  your  three-deckers  store  spars  for  a  jury, 
The  best  mast  may  fall,  though  the  cedar  be  strong. 

Yon  is  the  steed  all  arrayed  for  the  battle. 

See  how  he  paweth  and  pants  for  the  plain  ! 
'T  is    the    clash    of    the    sabre  —  he   knoweth   its 

rattle  — 

Spring  to  the  saddle  and  yield  him  the  rein ! 
Bold  as  your  manners, 
Flourish  your  banners, 

Strike  for  the  star  of  the  eagle  and  shield ! 
For    woman    't  is    sighs  —  and    for   children  't  is 

prattle, 

For  men  't  is  the  trumpet  which   sounds    to  the 
field. 

*  Alluding  to  the  Temple  of  Janus  which  was  closed  in  times 
of  peace,  but  kept  open  during  the  period  of  war. 


SONGS   OF   THE  FIELD.  81 

Passion-bound  minstrel,  abandon  your  numbers, 
Snap  the  soft  lute-string  or  cut  it  with  steel ! 
Herdsmen  and  husbandmen,  wake  from  your  slum 
bers  ! 

'T  is  the  voice  of  the  tempest,  the  forest  will  reel  — 
Country  and  city, 
Honest  and  witty, 

Gather  in  —  gather  round  —  hark  to  the  laws ! 
The    incense  burns   not  for  the   cloud  which  en 
cumbers, 
Arm  !  arm  for  the  people,  and  strike  for  the  cause ' 

The  victim  is  slain  and  the  entrails  are  heaving  * 

Portentous  with  omens  't  is  fearful  to  sing, 
While  the  bird  of  the  storm  through  the  red  tem 
pest  cleaving 

Floats  fast  to  the  South  on  his  thunder-nerved 
wing. 

Landsmen  and  seamen, 
Bondmen  and  freemen, 
Rally  up  —  rally  on — look  to  the  sign! 
Dark  is  the  spell  which  the  augurs  are  weaving; 
Stand  to  your  colors  and  crowd  to  the  line. 

February,  1861. 

*  The  Romans  are  said  to  have  derived  their  auguries  by  observ 
ing  the  palpitation  of  the  entrails  of  beasts  slain  at  the  sacrificial 
altars  of  their  priests. 


SONG  OF  THE  YOUNG  SCOUT. 

I  LOVE  to  wear  my  weapon  bright, 

But  not  alone  for  show ; 
Though  at  my  side  't  is  seeming  light, 

'T  is  heavy  in  the  blow  ; 
They  watch  me  twine  in  dalliance  oft 

Its  knot  of  silk  and  gold ; 
And  wonder  how  a  hand  so  soft 

Should  gripe  a  thing  so  cold. 

I  roam  along  the  hostile  shore, 

Where  lurks  the  tawny  clan, 
I  hear  the  rifle's  stirring  roar, 

And  I  lead  my  foremost  man. 
My  path  is  o'er  the  blood-red  trail, 

Which  flying  feet  have  past, 
Rattles  around  the  leaden  hail, 

Echoes  the  trumpet's  blast. 

'Tis  mine  the  torrent's  bed  to  wade, 

Urged  by  the  "long  alarm," 
And  through  the  hummock's  friendless  shade 

To  charge  the  lifted  arm. 
I  'm  on  my  steed  —  I  know  his  spring 

Along  the  grassy  plain  ; 


SONGS   OF  THE  FIELD.  83 

Give  way  —  he  hears  the  clarion  ring, 
And  chafeth  'neath  the  rein. 

Oh,  what  to  me  your  chidings  loud, 

Or  prayers  of  pleading  warm? 
I  wrestle  with  the  tempest  cloud, 

I  worship  —  with  the  storm. 
And  what  the  voice  that  chants  at  home 

Its  drowsy  roundelay  ?  — 
Go,  sing  unto  the  wild  sea's  foam, 

And  bid  the  billows  stay. 

For  me  the  music  of  the  wind, 

That  shakes  the  rocking  trees, 
All  gentler  strains  I  leave  behind  ; 

My  mistress  is  the  breeze ! 
Rouse  up,  my  merry  men,  and  share 

My  fortune,  lost  or  won ! 
The  larum  rolls  along  the  air, — 

On !  to  the  conflict,  on ! 


THE  YOUNG  WARRIOR. 

FAST  fell  a  sighing  sister's  tears  upon  a  brother's 

brow, 

As  stole  upon  the  moaning  winds  a  voice  of  mur 
murs  low : 
"  What  wilt  thou,  brother,  with  thy  sword  and  with 

thy  trappings  gay? 
And   canst  thou  leave  us,  Oh  !    beloved,  far  more 

than  words  can  say  ? 
What  secret  charm   can   urge   thee   forth  to  meet 

the  savage  foe? 
I  grieve   for   thee,   my  brother  ;    alas  !    that   thou 

shouldst  go ! 
I  weep,  I  cling   unto   thy  neck,  and  wilt  thou  not 

remain  ? 
Do  lips  of  prayer  and  eyes  of  love  still  plead  and 

gush  in  vain  ? 
Then   forth  !   and   take  with   thee  my  heart,  't  will 

guard  thee  in  the  fight, 
For  woman  in  her  love  is  strong   as  a  warrior   in 

his  might" 

A  father's   voice   rose   solemnly  in   cadence   grave 

but  mild, 
As  tremulous  his  aged  form  came   tottering  to  his 

child  : 


SONGS   OF  THE  FIELD.  85 

"I  ne'er  like   thee   have   doated  on  the  glories  of 

the  field, 
Nor  did  I  tell  thee,  boy,  to  choose  the  weapon  thou 

dost  wield  ; 
'Tis  thine  the  chances  of  the  die,  the  fortune  lost 

or  won, 
And   yet  I  bless   thee  in   my  grief — I  bless  thee, 

Oh  !  my  son. 
Would  that   my  trembling   form  for   thee  the  task 

and  toil  might  bear, 
That  I   might   suffer   for   my  child,   the   cherished 

of  my  prayer. 
May  He  who   smiles   amid  the   storm   rebuke   the 

bolts  of  harm, 
My  dearest  and  my  latest  born,  I  yield  thee  to  His 

arm." 

Then    heavily,   came   heavily,   like    ocean's   wintry 

moan, 
Amid  the  pausing  of  her  sobs,  a  mother's  broken 

tone : 
"  I  press  thee  in  these  aged  arms,  my  dearest  and 

my  last  — 
And  wilt  thou  leave   our   peaceful   home   for   the 

torrent  and  the  blast  ? 
I  knew,  my  child,  the   trump   and  drum   were   all 

thy  early  dream, 
But  canst  thou  hear  them  in  thy  sleep  amidst  the 

purple  stream  ? 
I  knew  thy  gaze  was  earnest  when  a  banner  floated 

by, 


86  VOICES  OF  THE  BORDER. 

But  can  the  gleaming  of  its  stars  arrest  the  clos 
ing  eye  ? 

My  son,  my  son,  to  lose  thee  thus  a  mother  may 
not  bear ! 

And  shall  I  kiss  no  more  thy  brow,  nor  part  thy 
shining  hair; 

Nor  gaze  in  silence  on  thy  face,  nor  linger  on  thy 
word  ? 

Oh !  by  a  mother's  tongueless  grief,  yield  up  the 
tearless  sword !  " 

As  melts  the  bugle's  dying  note   along   the  tented 

plain, 
Then  deeply  chimed  that  warrior's  voice  in  a  tone 

of  understrain : 
"  The  varied  changes  of  the  field  mine  is  the  lot  to 

know ; 
I've  stood  where  swords  were  flashing  bright  and 

banners  waving  low, 
And  I  have  felt  while  hoarsely  rang   the    trumpet 

voice  of  Fame, 
That  Conquest  was  a  weary  word  and  Glory  but  a 

name  ; 
And  yet,  and  yet,  Oh  !    most  beloved,   when  duty 

calls  away, 
To  battle  for  my  country's  right,  I  may  not,  must 

not  stay  ! 
Though  dreadful  be  the  fountain  red  where  drinks 

the  thirsty  sword, 
Oh !  judge  ye  not  the  mailed  might  of  Gideon  and 

the  Lord." 


SONGS   OF  THE   BOWER. 


"  Oh,  God!  that  you  may  never  know 
How  wild  a  kiss  she  gave  to  me !  "  —  Anon. 


>X3-----,Tlfi 
Kt^Z^f^1 


•yV  ^        ^-— -•— --t^VT; •_ _--   " 

;fe^AsgS^^  •  ^es — x  ^  jzizf^-^^  1'^HT^^^IZ^ 


THE   DREAMING   BOY. 

MY  mother  called  me  oft  her  dreaming  boy, 
Even  from  my  youth's  spring-time  —  for  I  took 

But  little  pleasure  in  the  task  or  toy  ; 

And  if  my  eyes  at  times  were  on  my  book, 

My  thoughts  were  wandering  elsewhere.    'T  was  my 

joy 

To  steal  alone  to  some  sequestered  brook ; 
And  I  would  leave  my  playmates  in  their  glee, 
To  watch  the  sun  go  down  upon  the  sea. 

Such  was  a  quaint  caprice,  but  harmless,  sure, 
Yet  Envy  brooked  it  not,  and  she  would  say, 

(Pointing  her  fingers  with  a  look   demure,) 

"  There  goes  the  misanthrope  who  shuns  the  play 

Of  his  companions."     And  I  did  endure 
It  all  —  save  once,  when,  on  a  festal  day 

An  urchin  called  me  "  Coward."     Face  to  face 

We  met,  —  Ah !  't  was  a  long  unkind  embrace. 

Mine  was  a  gentle  nature  —  yet  a  look 
Reproachful,  or  a  word,  I  could  not  bear, 


90  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

And  if  they  ever  crossed  me  with  rebuke, 

I  gnashed  my  teeth,  and  stormed,   and   tore  my 
hair ; 

Or  hiding  in  some  dark  sequestered  nook, 
Vexatious  wept  myself  to  slumber  there. 

Yet  there  was  one  whose  voice  of  undertone 

Could  soothe  my  anger  with  a  look  alone. 

I  prized  her  much  ;  for  she  would  often  turn 
To  paint  the  4i  stars  "  upon  my  new-made  kite, 

And  clap  her  hands,  and  skip  for  joy  to  learn 
The  story  gay  of  its  successful  flight. 

My  "  puzzle  "  too  —  when  I  could  not  discern 
What    piece    "  came   next"   she   always   told   me 
'  right ; 

And  on  the  rocks,  beside  the  sounding  sea, 

She  'd  sit,  and  string  my  shells  and  sing  to  me. 

I  knew  her  guileless,  simply  —  that  she  sung. 

(Music,  I  'm  sure,  could  never  wed  with  Wrong ; 
Oh  !  I  would  list  to  siren  Falsehood's  tongue, 

If  she  but  breathed  her  perjured  tale  in  song.) 
Sometimes  for  me,  also,  her  lute  she  strung, 

And  as  her  fingers  swept  the  chords  along, 
If  o'er  my  brow  there  chanced  a  cloud  of  pain, 
'T  would  melt  away  beneath  the  magic  strain. 

Did  she  but  laugh,  I  know  not  how  or  why, 
My  ready  lip  prolonged  the  joyous  trill, 


SONGS  OF  THE  BOWER.  91 

And  if  her  bosom  chanced  to  heave  the  sigh, 
My  own  grew  sad,  swelling  responsive  still. 

When  she  was  near,  more  bright  the  sunset  sky, 
And  softer  seemed  the  rippling  of  the  rill ; 

In  every  rose  her  fingers  wandered  o'er, 

I  found  some  beauty  ne'er  discerned  before. 

Again,  and  yet  again,  —  and  a  deep  dream 

Comes  o'er  me  with  the  thoughts  of  days  gone 
by! 

And  a  dim  mist  rises  from  Time's  dark  stream 
And  gathers  round  my  brow  —  oh,  heavily  ! 

And  through  the  shadowy  vista  forms  there  seem 
Of  memory's  past  creation,  and  mine  eye 

Rests,  like  a  dreamer's,  on  a  shape  of  air :     * 

The  ideal  of  my  numbers  —  she  is  there. 

Clear  and  more  clear  my  sight  that  mould  defines 
Shaped  by  the  wing  of  symmetry.     Her  hair 

Floats  o'er  her  marble  forehead,  which  reclines 
Upon  a  Parian  arm,  —  a  model  rare, 

Meet  for  a  master's  study,  and  the  lines 

Of  more  than  mortal  beauty,  —  all  are  there, 

Breaking  upon  my  vision  from  afar, 

As  through  a  fleecy  cloud  the  midnight  star. 

Oh,  thou  bright  being  of  my  wayward  song, 
"Whose  form,  like  a  mysterious  presence,  slow, 

Unshadowed  o'er  my  fancy  steals  along, 
As  o'er  the  mist  at  eve  a  sunset  bow, 


92  VOICES  OF  THE  BORDER. 

Leaning  upon  my  hand,  with  effort  strong, 

I  gaze  upon  thy  image.     Long  ago, 
Bella !  since  last  we  met,  —  and  with  a  start 
I  breathe  thy  name  as  of  past  time  a  part. 

Thine  oft-heard  tone  comes  o'er  me,  yet,  methinks, 
'T  is  like  the  voice  of  ages  in  mine  ear, 

And  my  bowed  spirit  chastens  as  it  drinks 
The  waters  of  remembrance  with  a  tear  ; 

And  this  frail  hand  at  its  own  easel  shrinks, 
Like  a  discouraged  painter's.     Oh  !  the  bier 

Weareth  a  robe  of  gladness,  to  the  pall 

Drawn  round  the  soul  at  wakened  memory's  call. 

Oft  we  were  wont,  when  first  the  sunbeams  smiled, 
Scattering  the  pathway  with  bright  gems  of  dew, 

Locked  hand  in  hand,  to  tread  the  meadows  wild, 
And  pluck  the  hawthorn  or  the  harebell  blue ; 

Or  climb  the  hay-mound  when  the  air  was  mild, 
And  laughing  watch  the  bubbles  which  we  blew, 

Or  seek  the  bank,  pleased  with  the  streamlet's  purl, 

Where  with  the  birds  she  sang,  that  sinless  girl. 

And  we  were  wont,  when  closed  the  sultry  day, 
And  the  cool  breeze  reviving  freshness  bore, 

To  wander  forth  along  the  moon-lit  bay, 

And  count  its  ripples  as  they  kissed  the  shore. 

Thrice  had  I  seen  her  throned  the  queen  of  May, 
And  thrice  the  crown  these  fingers  wove  she  wore. 

Oh  !  happy  time,  how  passed  the  laughing  hours 

When  weaving  for  her  brow  that  crown  of  flowers. 


SONGS    OF   THE   BOWER.  93 

We've  stood  together  when  the  lonely  lea 
Was  hushed  around  like  desolation's  fane, 

Save  when  the  spirits  of  the  gurgling  sea 

Breathed   from  their  caves  the  murmurs  of  the 
main  ; 

When  the  faint  South,  weary  with  flower  and  tree, 
With  folded  pinions  slept  upon  its  plain  ; 

And  the  pale  moon  looked  down  upon  its  crest, 

A  guardian  angel  o'er  a  loved  one's  rest. 

We've  stood  together  when  the  storm-king  bade 
His  oivn  "  go  forth  "  —  and  heard  their  answer 
ing  roar  ; 

When   the  wild   sea-mews  wheeled,   with   fear   dis 
mayed, 
And  screamed,  and  flapped  their  wings  and  sought 

the  shore  ; 
When  the  thick  mist,  anon  in  flames  arrayed  — 

A  horrid  beacon — hung  the  billows  o'er; 
All  breathless  then  and  pale  we've  stood  to  mark 
The  moving  mount  where  hung  the  helmless  bark. 

One  breezy  night,  when  shone  heaven's  silver  crown 
Pure  as  the  lustre  of  an  angel's  face, 

And  the  far -distant  skies  seemed  bending  down 
To  clasp  the  waters  in  their  wide  embrace, 

On  a  high  beetling  crag  of  rugged  frown 
We  stood  together,  far  above  its  base. 

'T  was  a  wild  rock  lashed  by  the  billowy  whirl ; 

And  o'er  the  brink  she  gazed,  —  that  fearless  girl. 


94  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

By  the  crag's  verge,  bending  she  stood  alone, 

For  she  had  bid  me  for  a  moment  go 
And  seek  among  the  cliffs  to  find  a  stone, 

O  9 

That  she  might  plunge  it  in  the  gulf  below. 
'T  was  but  a  moment,  sure,  that  I  was  gone, 

And  I  had  turned  to  bring  one  fit  to  throw, 
When  a  shriek  burst  above  the  raving  swell,  — • 
"  My  brain,  my  brain  !  Edgar,  save  Isabel !  " 

Her  Edgar  heard  it,  —  that  wild,  frenzied  call ! 

And  a  cold,  nameless  chill  his  heart  came  o'er  ; 
The  sea-mew  heard  it  from  his  cloud-capped  wall. 

And  with  a  scream  accordant  fled  the  shore ; 
The  storm  fiend  heard  it  in  his  coral  hall, 

And  shook  his  crest  and  answered  with  a  roar; 
And  Echo  heard,  and  on  the  mingled  swell 
Of  wind  and  wave  came  back,  "  Save  Isabel !  " 

With  a  quick  bound  I  sprang,  wild  with  dismay, 
But  gained  the  verge  too  late,  —  far   downward, 
oh! 

On  her  white  dress  I  saw  the  moonbeams  play, 
Through  her  loosed  hair  glittered  the  stars  below  ; 

Upon  the  deep  a  Parian  corse  she  lay, 

Save  one  dark  spot  upon  her  brow  of  snow ; 

Her  head  drooped  down  upon  a  frost-white  pillow, 

Then  sunk,  for  aye,  beneath  the  heaving  billow. 

Sky,  placid  sky,  how  could'st  thou  shine  the  same, 
Mocking  my  desolation  with  thy  light  ? 


SONGS   OF  THE  BOWER.  95 

Where  were  thy  red  avengers  that  they  came 
Not  at  my  bidding,  in  that  hour  of  blight? 

Earth !  where  thy  mercy  that  thou  did'st  not  claim 
Thy  worm  and  hide  him  in   thy  dens  of  night  ? 

Remorseless  deep  !  why  ebbed  thy  murderous  swell  ? 

It  had  no  grave  for  me  —  with  Isabel. 

With  mad'ning  clasp  I  pressed  my  burning  brain, 
And   cast   my  eyes  to  heaven !  Oh,  God  !  't  was 
fair  ; 

No  foul  eclipse  —  no  cloud  of  blood-red  stain  — 
No  star  came  staggering  pathless  down  the  air  — 

But  tranquil  all  and  pure  —  sky,  sea  and  plain  — 
Oh  !  bright  and  beautiful  —  and  she  was  there ! 

My  every  sense  —  my  soul  —  my  all  below, 

My  only  light  in  this  dim  world  of  woe. 

I  threw  my  form  my  mother  earth  beside, 
But  on  her  kindred  bosom  shed  no  tear ; 

My  eyes  refused  to  weep,  —  it  was  denied 

To  soothe  my  anguish  with  griefs  solace  dear ; 

I  did  not  pray,  nor  groan,  nor  rave,  nor  chide ; 
I  had  no  human  hope,  no  earthly  fear, 

But  like  the  doomed  when  life's  last  woof  is  spun, 

Heedless  of  bloom  or  blight,  or  cloud  or  sun. 

I  cannot  tell  how  long  supine  I  lay 

Upon  the  spot  where  first  I  listless  fell,  — 

An  hour  perhaps,  perhaps  till  dawn  of  day, 
Or  the  next  noon  or  night,  —  I  cannot  tell. 


96  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

Tides   may  have   ebbed  and  flowed  and  the  damp 

spray 
Of  waves  dashed  o'er  me,  —  like  their  sounding 

knell, 

The  hours  passed  by,  —  one  long  unceasing  chime, 
One  twilight  perpetuity  of  time. 

At  length  I  recked  me  of  a  sound  which  broke 
The  dull  monotonous  roaring  in  my  ear ; 

A  something  like  a  voice,  —  methought  it  spoke 
Pausing  and  low,  as  if  the  dead  were  near ; 

And  then,  methought,  1  heard  a  raven  croak, 
And  moving  wheels  groan  heavily  —  like  a  bier  ; 

While  my  bowed  form  was  lifted  up  and  lain 

Upon  —  I  know  not  what,  —  't  was  dark  again. 

When  next  the  star  of  reason  lit  my  soul, 
Upon  a  couch  I  lay,  and  through  the  fold 

Of  crimson  curtains  chastened  sunbeams  stole, 
Bright'ning  my  pillow  with  their  rays  of  gold; 

While  at  a  span's  brief  distance  stood  a  bowl 
Fraught  with  some  soothing  draught ;  strange  fits 
of  cold 

Thrilled   through   my   limbs  —  methought   could   I 
obtain 

That  cup,  't  would  bring  reviving  warmth  again. 

I  tried  to  raise  my  hand,  with  effort  strong, 

When,  oh,  despair !  it  recked  not  of  my  will ; 
I  strove  to  speak  —  the  accents  died  along 


SONGS  OF   THE  BOWER.  97 

A  passage  closed  to  utterance  —  all  was  still. 
Then  beings  strange  came  in,  a  motley  throng, 

And  I  did  pray  them  not  to  do  me  ill, 
And  showed  my  pillow  where  the  sunbeams  lay, 
And  bid  them  "  Take  that  gold  and  go  away" 

Anon  a  fevered  change  did  come  to  me ; 

And  I  went  down  beneath  the  surging  waves ; 
Now  riding  on  a  dolphin,  strange  to  see, 

And  floating  now  along  the  mermaids'  caves ; 
Straightway  their  coral  grots  would  seem  to  be 

Changed  in  a  moment  to  a  world  of  graves, 
And  the  loose  sea-weed  where  I,  tangling,  fell, 
To  the  long  locks  of  gentle  Isabel! 

Anon  a  fevered  change  did  come  to  me ; 

And  I  went  up  upon  the  rushing  wind ; 
Onward  and  onward  soaring  far  and  free 

Till  one  by  one  the  stars  were  left  behind ; 
Heaven  burst  upon  my  view,  and  I  did  see 

A  peri  fair'  in  battle  with  a  fiend 
Who  plunged  her   down.     Oh,  mercy!  as  she  fell, 
'T  was  that  same  shriek  —  "  Edgar,  save  Isabel !  " 

Few  scattered  recollections  yet  remain 

Of  forms  that  came  and  went  I  know  not  how, 

And  that  my  pillow  gave  my  head  less  pain 
As  if  a  mother  smoothed  it  down  but  now; 

Sometimes  soft  languor  cooled  my  burning  brain, 
7 


98  VOICES  OF  THE  BORDER. 

As  if  a  sister's  lips  had  kissed  my  brow, 
But  when  my  voice  implored  them  not  to  fade 
They  all  swept  by,  mocking  my  call  for  aid. 


Here  let  me  pause  —  nor  longer  strive  to  sing 
The  wayward  wanderings  of  fantastic  thought  ! 

Vainly  the  minstrel  wakes  his  trembling  string 
To  trace  the  vagaries  of  a  mind  o'erwrought. 

Enough  that  sorrow  lost  at  length  its  sting, 
And  reason  once  again  her  empire  sought, 

As  with  a  look  of  love  and  kiss  of  joy 

His  mother  kneeled,  and  knew  her  " dreaming  boy" 


THOU  HAST  WOOED  ME  WITH 
PLEDGES. 

THOU  hast  wooed  me  with  pledges 

A  princess  might  wear ; 
Thou  hast  proffered  rich  jewels 

To  wreathe  mid  my  hair. 
Ah !  deck  with  thy  treasures 

The  halls  of  the  sea ; 
Thy  gold  and  thy  purple  — 

They  are  not  for  me. 
But  give  me  Love's  myrtle 
•   And  ribbon  of  blue  ; 
And  I  '11  go  to  the  bridal 

At  vespers  with  you. 

Thou  hast  told  of  the  glory 

Which  waited  thy  bride ; 
Thy  mansions  of  splendor, 

Thy  lineage  of  pride. 
Ah !  show  to  the  high-born 

Thy  palace  of  glee  ; 
Its  courts  and  its  titles  — 

They  are  not  for  me. 
But  give  me  a  cottage, 

A  warm  heart  and  true ; 
And  I  '11  go  to  the  bridal 

At  vespers  with  you. 


SHE  WROTE. 

SHE  wrote  upon  the  golden  sand 

Where  dashed  the  ocean's  spray,' 
But  fast  as  formed  beneath  her  wand, 

The  words  were  washed  away. 
And  as  she  stood  the  shore  beside, 

To  watch  the  rising  sea, 
"  'T  is  ever  thus,"  the  maiden  cried, 

"  Oh,  ever  thus  with  me  ! 
Upon  this  heart  a  picture  bright 

Hope's  pencil  never  drew, 
But  Sorrow  came  with  waves  of  blight, 

And  washed  the  lines  from  view." 

She  turned  toward  the  setting  sun 

To  catch  its  vesper  ray, 
But  while  the  light  she  gazed  upon, 

It  faded  fast  away. 
And  as  the  clouds  with  crimson  dyed, 

She  sadly  stood  to  see, 
"  'T  is  ever  thus,"  the  maiden  cried, 

"  Oh,  ever  thus  with  me  ! 
A  hand  to  mine  I  Ve  never  prest 

Whose  clasp  was  not  untrue, 
And  all  that's  bright,  like  yonder  west, 

Hath  proved  as  fleeting  too." 


STANZAS   FOR  MUSIC. 

WE  have  smiled  and  wept  together, 

We  have  roamed  by  shore  and  sea, 
We  have  stemmed  misfortune's  weather, 
Yet  I  part  from  thee. 

Star  of  Love,  how  art  thou  clouding ! 

Curtained  shadows  veil  the  sky, 
In  the  storm  my  life-bark  shrouding ; 
Guide  me  with  thine  eye. 

We  have  trod  the  mystic  measure, 
We  have  sung  the  song  of  glee, 
We  have  twined  the  wreath  of  pleasure, 
Yet  I  part  from  thee. 

Sun  of  Hope,  eclipsed  in  sorrow, 

Whither  shall  my  footsteps  stray  ? 
Blind  the  night  and  bleak  the  morrow: 
Save  me  with  thy  ray. 


THOU  WERT  NOT  THERE. 

THOU  wert  not  there  ;  from  morn  till  night, 
All  passion-tost,  I  chid  the  day : 

For  though  the  sun  went  down  in  light; 
The  hours  he  marked  still  seemed  to  stay. 

With  lingering  touch  I  swept  the  string, 
But  vainly  rang  the  whiling  air ; 

Time  hastened  not  his  loaded  wing,  — 

Thou  wert  not  there. 

Thou  wert  not  there  this  eye  to  see, 
To  know  the  long,  long  watch  it  kept: 

This  eye  whose  light  but  shone  for  thee, 
Whose  every  tear  for  thee  was  wept. 

It  was  not  strange,  for  days  and  days 
Its  glances  roamed  with  vacant  stare ; 

Thou  wert  not  by  to  fix  its  gaze,  — 

Thou  wert  not  there. 

Thou  wert  not  there,  though  fever  bound 
This  throbbing  brow  with  cords  of  flame, 

And  strangers  heard,  who  lingered  round, 
My  wandering  tongue  pronounce  thy  name. 

They  watched  my  temple's  deep'ning  glow, 
They  knew  the  grief  I  scarce  could  bear ; 

But  thou  who  might'st  have  soothed  that  woe, 
Thou  wert  not  there. 


MIDNIGHT. 

WRITTEN  AT  WEST  POINT. 

IT  is  the  midnight  hour,  —  the  busy  hum 

Of  day  is  hushed,  for  man  hath  sunk  to  rest, 
And  the  last  echo  of  the  evening  drum 

Hath  died  long  since  far  o'er  the  mountain  crest ; 
No  sound  is  heard,  save  when  the  deep  winds  come 

In  fitful  murmurs  from  the  Hudson's  breast, 
Blending  their  whispers  with  the  moaning  breeze 

That  wanders  faintly  through  the  forest  trees. 

The  bird  of  eve  is  sitting  on  her  bough 

Reciting  to  the  stars  her  vesper  hymn, 
And  the  pale  moon,  as  if  to  hear  her  vow, 

Floating  from  out  the  clouds,  hath  lit  the  limb 
With  heavenly  lustre,  and  the  earth,  but  now 

Shrouded  with  gloom  as  with  a  mantle  dim, 
Looks  smiling  forth  through  the  effulgence  bright, 

As  if  't  would  say,  How  beautiful  is  night ! 


THE  EYE  OF  CERULEAN  BLUE. 

THE  sun  had  just  sunk  in  the  west, 
And  the  moon  was  just  sinking  there  too, 
And  the  clouds  were  the  richest,  the  brightest,  the 

best 

By  poet  conceived  or  by  painter  expressed, 
Yet  I  thought  of  no  object,  it  must  be  confessed, 
But  her  eye  of  cerulean  blue. 

I  turned  to  the  rose-colored  sky, 
•    As  we  spoke  of  its  fast-fading  hue, 
But  e'er  we  had  gazed  for  a  moment,  a  sigh 
Came  deep  from  my  breast,  and  I  dared  not  tell 

why  — 
How  I  dwelt,  how  I  dreamed  on  the  hue  of  her  eye, 

Her  eye  of  cerulean  blue. 

We  talked  of  the  beauties  of  night, 

Of  a  star  just  appearing  in  view. 
And  she  thought  that  I  spoke  of  its  mild  azure  light, 
When  impassioned   I   swore   't  was   so    lovely   and 

bright ; 
But  the  star  that  /looked  on,  that  dazzled  my  sight, 

Was  her  eye  of  cerulean  blue. 


SONGS   OF   THE  BOWER.  105 

Her  hand  chanced  to  touch  against  mine  ; 
('T  was  the  softest  that  ever  I  knew,) 
And  she  sighed  like  the  breeze  when  't  is  wooing 

the  vine, 
But  the   touch  and  the   sigh  were  unanswered   by 

mine, 

For  I  felt  and  J  saw  but  one  object  divine,  — 
Her  eye  of  cerulean  blue. 

A  wager  I  laid  —  should  have  won  it  — 
On  that  eye  of  celestial  hue, 
But  scarce  had  I  written  one  stanza  upon   it, 
When  I   saw  it   peep   out   'neath   its   little   brown 

bonnet, 

And  away  went  my  heart,  and  away  went  my  son 
net  : 
Oh,  that  eye  of  cerulean  blue ! 


LOVE   AND   REASON. 

AN    ALLEGORY. 

ONE  day  when  Love,  oppressed  with  pain, 

Had  laid  aside  his  golden  quiver, 
And  gone  to  cool  his  burning  brain, 

To  roam  awhile  by  Reason's  river; 

Upon  the  bank  of  roses  gay 

Which  fringe  the  edge  of  Reason's  water, 
He  saw  a  cherub  girl  at  play, 

And  knew  the  romp  for  Reason's  daughter. 

"  Come  hither,  hither,  blooming  child ! 

Long  have  I  sought  to  have  thee  near  me, 
Let 's  roam  among  these  roses  wild : 

I  've  not  my  bow  —  you  need  not  fear  me." 

As  Love  pronounced  the  maiden's  name, 
From  his  bright  wing  he  plucked  a  feather, 

Pleased  with  the  proffered  toy  she  came, 
And  hand  in  hand  they  roamed  together. 

At  length  there  rose  a  tempest  wild, 

Though  Reason  thought 't  was  not  un  pleasing, 


SONGS   OF  THE  BOWER.  107 

But  storms  scarce  felt  by  Reason's  child, 
To  gracile  Love  appear  quite  freezing. 

"  How  shield  me  from  this  icy  air  ! 

My  wings  are  all  too  wet  for  flying  — 
Come,  take  me  to  that  bosom  fair," 

Said  Love  to  Reason,  softly  sighing ; 

And  nestling  up  to  Reason's  form, 

Spread  his  chill  wings  on  Reason's  shoulder  ; 
And  this  is  why  as  Love  grows  warm, 

Reason,  they  say,  grows  always  colder. 

The  Zephyr  now  rode  down  the  air, 
To  kiss  the  rain-drops  from  the  cresses, 

While  Love  unfolded  Reason's  hair, 

And  dried  his  wings  with  Reason's  tresses. 

But  Love  grew  faint  and  weary  soon, 
As  oft  he  grows  by  Reason's  bowers, 

So  from  the  maid  he  asked  the  boon, 
To  sleep  that  night  among  the  flowers. 

Reason  replied  with  drooping  head, 
And  pausing  'neath  a  weeping  willow, 

She  wove  its  branches  for  a  bed, 

And  plucked  the  rose-buds  for  a  pillow. 

But  lest  another  storm  might  rise, 

Of  which  they  'd  have  too  little   warning, 


108  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

One  was  to  watch  the  changing  skies, 
And  one  to  sleep,  by  turns,  till  morning. 

Thus  each  awhile  in  slumber  lay, 

Each  watched  the  other's  couch  of  roses, 

And  this  is  why,  they  always  say, 

When  Love  awakes,  then  Reason  dozes. 


I    CANNOT  LOVE    HER. 

I  CANNOT  love  her  ;  —  every  tress 

Which  o'er  her  forehead  strays, 
Stamps  on  my  soul,  with  deeper  stress, 

The  dream  of  other  days. 
Yet  I  have  bowed  beside  her  form 

In  sorrow  and  in   mirth, 
With  sigh  and  tear  and  pleading  warm ; 

Another  gave  them  birth. 

I  cannot  love  her ;  —  every  glance 

Her  eyes  upon  me  cast 
Serves  but  to  strengthen  and  enhance 

The  memories  of  the  past. 
Yet  I  have  told  her  stars  ne'er  set 

In  such  deep  lustrous  blue, 
And  prayed  her  gaze  one  moment  yet,  - 

Ah !  it  was  Mary's  too. 

I  cannot  love  her ;  —  cold  and  mute 

My  heart  to  passion's  spell, 
Yet  I  have  lingered  o'er  her  lute, 

And  praised  its  numbers  well ; 
And  whispered  how  an  angel's  tone 

Faltered  its  chords  among, 


110  VOICES    OF  THE  BOEDER. 

And  how  her  voice  seemed  passion's  own,  - 
'T  was  thus  that  Mary  sung. 

Quench,  quench  this  meteoric  gleam, 

Mocking  a  planet's  light ! 
Enough,  —  't  is  past,  —  't  was  but  a  dream, 

Welcome,  oblivion's  night ! 
I  do  not  love  her ;  —  't  were  a  spot 

Upon  affection's  sun  : 
I  love  but  one  —  and  she  is  not,  — 

No!  no!  I  love  but  one. 


THE  ISLE    OF    LOVE. 

THERE  's  a  bright  sunny  spot  where  the  cinnamon- 
trees 
Shed   their   richest    perfume    to    the   soft    wooing 

breeze ; 

Where  the  rose  is  as  sweet  and  as  bright  is  the  sky 
As  the  balm  of  thy  breath  and  the  glance  of  thine 

eye; 

And  clouds  pass  as  soon  o'er  that  beautiful  isle, 
As  the  tear  on  thy  cheek  disappears  at  thy  smile. 
Come,  hasten,  fair  Emma,  oh  hasten  with  me 
To  that  bright  sunny  spot  in  the  far-distant  sea. 

Light  breezes  are  swelling  the  gossamer  sail 
Of  my  love-freighted  bark  from  the  evergreen  vale, 
And  loudly  the  night-bird  is  chanting  her  lay, 
To  shorten  thy  slumbers  —  away  and  away  — 
"We  will  land  mid  the  groves  and  each  wild  flower 

there 

I  will  twine  in  a  wreath  for  thy  soft  flaxen  hair, 
While  we  roam,  like  the  antelope,  reckless  and  free 
O'er  that  bright  sunny  isle  in  the  far-distant  sea. 

Soft  music  is  there,  for  the  mermaiden's  shell 
Is  often  heard  winding  through  mountain  and  dell, 


112  VOICES   OF   THE   BORDER. 

As  the  song  of  the  sea-spirit  steals  to  the  shore 
From  the  wave-girdled  rock  where  the  white  billows 

roar ; 
And  the  tones  of  thy  voice,  oh,  how  sweetly  they  '11 

blend 
With  the  notes  which  the  harps  of  the  ocean  nymphs 

send ! 

We  will  list  to  the  strains  as  they  float  o'er  the  lea 
Of  that  bright  sunny  spot  in  the  far-distant  sea. 

Far,  far,  mid  its  bowers  sequestered  and  lone 
Young  Love  has  erected  a  jessamine  throne, 
And  sworn  with  an  oath  which  no  mortal  may  say 
That  none  but  the  fairest  its  sceptre  may  sway. 
Then  hasten,  fair  Emma,  oh  hasten  to-night, 
While  the  stars  are  yet  pale  and  the  moon  is  yet 

bright ; 

For,  Love,  he  hath  destined  that  sceptre  for  thee, 
In  that  bright  sunny  isle  in  the  far-distant  sea. 


BURNING   LETTERS. 

[CONCEIVE  of  a  boarding-school  miss,  summoned  by  the  paternal 
mandate,  about  to  return  to  her  friends,  hhe  has  retired  to  her 
''boudoir"  to  reperuse  her  epistolary  manuscripts  and  consign 
those  to  destruction  which  maidenly  friendship  would  cherish,  but 
which  matronly  prudence  might  condemn.  Her  eye  lingers  on 
them  for  the  last  time,  as  her  fingers  commit  them  one  by  one  tc 
the  flames.  We  will  follow  her  in  song:]  — 

No  !  I  '11  not  the  thought  recall ! 
Kindle,  flame !  consume  them  all,  — 
Every  pledge  of  former  years, 
All  my  smiles  and  all  my  tears. 
Letters  traced  by  Friendship's  fingers, 
Lines  o'er  which  my  fancy  lingers, 
Every  word  and  every  name, 
All  must  perish,  —  kindle,  flame  ! 
This !  the  first  to  meet  thy  rage  — 
How  I  've  mused  upon  its  page ! 
Ere  the  tender  seal  I  tore, 
Well  I  knew  the  stamp  it  bore  ; 
Oh,  the  tales  its  face  could  tell ! 
Kindle,  fire,  and  burn  it  well. 
This !  but  yesterday  it  seems 
Since  it  verified  my  dreams ; 
Days  before  my  heart  was  sad, 
Boding  news  of  something  bad; 


114  VOICES   OF   THE  BORDER. 

When  it  came,  alas  how  true ! 
Take  it,  fire  !  and  burn  it  too. 
Here  is  one  oft  read  before  : 
Let  me  scan  its  lines  once  more. 
Lovely  writer,  hath  she  deemed 
I  was  happy  as  I  seemed  ? 
Had  she  only  read  my  heart ! 
Bitter  tears,  why  will  ye  start  ? 
Ye  have  now  no  business  here,  — 
Fire !  't  is  thine,  burn  high  and  clear ! 
Another  and  another  yet  ; 
This  the  tear  hath  often  wet  ; 
This  came  when  my  heart  was  gay, 
Happy  girl  and  happy  day  ! 
How  my  task  I  hurried  o'er, 
Once  again  to  read  it  more  ! 

O 

This  and  this  one  night  were  brought, 
When  of  home  I  fondly  thought. 
What  my  feeling  who  can  say  ? 
But  the  fire  I  cannot  stay. 
Last  of  all  —  here  —  take  my  last ! 
Burn  it,  flame,  and  burn  it  fast ! 
Melt  the  links  of  memory's  chain, 
Never  to  unite  again  ; 
'  Buried  loves,  and  friendships  true, 
Fare  ye  well,  —  adieu  !  adieu  ! 


STANZAS. 

I  SAW  thee  when  in  humble  sphere, 

Nor  friends  nor  fortune  round  thee  smiled, 
And  oft  I  shed  the  secret  tear, 

That  thou,  alas,  wert  Sorrow's  child. 
'T  was  then  thy  youthful  love  I  sought, 

But  though  my  heart  was  knit  to  thine, 
So  wealth  and  pride  o'er  passion  wrought, 

Never,  I  said,  I  '11  call  thee  mine. 

I  saw  thee  when  thy  smile  was  bright, 

Leading  the  maze  of  Fashion's  train  ; 
I  saw  thee  when  thy  step  was  light, 

Lending  a  charm  to  Music's  strain. 
But  from  the  hour  when  thou  wert  blest, 

I  marked  my  fortune's  sad  decline, 
And  though  I  loved  thee,  fondest,  best, 

Then,  then,  oh  ne'er  I  'd  call  thee  mine. 

Again  our  wayward  stars  have  met, 
And  now  we  both  are  sad  and  lone, 

But  dry  the  tear  of  past  regret, 

The  bridal  voice  shall  claim  its  own. 

Howe'er  Misfortune's  stormy  blast 

May  strive  to  make  fond  hearts  repine, 


116  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

The  sundered  chord  unites  at  last : 

Now,  dearest  love,  I  '11  call  thee  mine. 

Soft  pillowed  on  that  soothing  breast, 

This  brow  hath  ached  too  long  to  know 
There  I  may  find  that  place  of  rest 

The  warring  world  would  ne'er  bestow. 
And  when  our  lives'  declining  star, 

Obscured  by  death  no  more  shall  shine, 
We  '11  wing  our  flight  mid  skies  afar, 

And  still,  dear  love,  I  '11  call  thee  mine. 


VENUS  OF   CANOVA. 

THERE  is  no  cloud  upon  thy  brow, 

Fair  idol  of  a  shrine  above, 
No  gathering  shadows  round  thee  grow, 

Which  veil  the  forms  of  earthly  love. 
O'er  all  that  kneel  in  Beauty's  bower 

Thou  reignest  still  in  queenly  prime, 
Thy  life  a  never-ending  hour, 

Unscathed  by  care,  unmoved  by  time. 

Yet  none,  whose  lingering  glances  steal 

Along  those  lines  of  moulding  rare, 
But  sigh  to  see  and  grieve  to  feel 

The  loneliness  of  Beauty  there. 
Around  thy  lip's  voluptuous  swell 

Though  all  divine  the  smiles  which  play, 
Yet  where  's  the  wildering  breath  to  tell 

Its  grief  for  pangs  it  could  not  stay  ? 

Soft  Pity  looks  with  tearful  eye, 

But  pleads  in  vain  to  melt  thine  own ; 

The  voice  of  Blood  hath  past  thee  by, 
What  reck'st  thou  of  its  thunder  tone  ? 

Though  withering  Grief  should  league  with  Glee, 
Revenge  forget  his  purpose  bold, 


118  VOICES   OF   THE  BORDER. 

And  Hate  turn  back  to  gaze  —  on  thee, 
Thou  'dst  heed  it  not  —  creation  cold  ! 

Why  moulded  thus  serene  and  fair, 

Pale  image  of  a  sculptor's  dream  ? 
Let  change  awhile  be  written  there, 

And  lovelier  far  thy  brow  will  seem. 
Some  line  effaced  by  Sorrow's  tear, 

Some  feature  touched  by  dull  Decay, 
And  thou  shalt  be  an  emblem  dear 

Of  those  we  love  that  pass  away. 


TO   IANTHE. 

SINCE  thou  art  gone,  lanthe. 
Laughter  hath  lost  its  tone, 
Smiles  are  like  buds  that  wither, 
Since  thou  art  gone. 

Since  thou  art  fled,  lanthe, 
Music  sits  mute  and  lone, 
For  melody  hath  perished, 
Since  thou  art  gone. 

Since  thou  art  gone,  lanthe, 
Dimly  the  stars  have  shone, 
Tears  must  have  veiled  their  brightness, 
Since  thou  art  gone. 

Since  thou  art  fled,  lanthe, 
Love  heeds  not  Beauty's  throne, 
For  broken  is  her  sceptre, 
Since  thou  art  gone. 


I   LIVE   FOR  THEE. 

I  LIVE  for  thee  —  't  were  little  worth 
I  know,  such  words  the  world  to  tell, 

But  yet  the  loveliest  things  of  earth 
Repeat  that  phrase  of  pleasing  spell. 

The  vesper  bird,  at  close  of  day, 

Who  greets  his  mate  with  songs  of  glee, 

Does  he  not  say,  or  seem  to  say, 

I  live  for  thee? 

I  live  for  thee  —  the  lute-string  cries, 
Thou  chosen  of  the  minstrel^band, 

For  one  alone  its  music  sighs, 

And  answers  not  a  stranger's  hand. 

The  flower  which  marks  the  coursing  sun, 
With  constant  gaze  its  god  to  see, 

Oh  !   looks  it  not  —  thou  glorious  one  — 
I  live  for  thee  ? 

I  live  for  thee  —  bird,  lute,  and  flower, 
Ah !  weave  again  that  soothing  tone, 

And  waft  it  on  to  yon  far  bower, 
Where  one  ye  know  not  sits  alone. 

And  tell  her  how  at  even-tide, 
O'er  tented  plain  or  rolling  sea, 

Fond  accents  breathe  —  my  gentle  bride  — 
I  live  for  thee. 


THE  DYING  BETROTHED. 

MOTHER  !  raise  my  drooping  head ; 

Let  the  pure  and  placid  sky. 
Looking  down  upon  my  bed, 

Smile  upon  me  e'er  I  die  ! 
When  the  star  of  eve  was  bright, 

Gazing  on  its  silver  brow 
I  did  love  that  vesper  light : 

Let  it  shine  upon  me  now. 

Lift  the  curtain's  jealous  fold 

Where  it  intercepts  the  ray  ; 
I  have  thought  yon  beams  of  gold 

Struggled  on  my  couch  to  lay. 
Ere  they  met  my  dying  eyes 

Soft  I  dreamed  some  angel  fair, 
Watching  o'er  me  from  the  skies, 

Sent  them  down  to  guide  me  there. 

In  the  hour  yon  star  grows  pale, 
Then  the  pledge  redeemed  shall  be  ; 

Time  nor  distance  may  prevail,  — 
'T  was  the  sign  he  gave  to   me. 

Look  !  it  seemeth  now  to  glide 
Sadly  past  yon  sunset  cloud ; 


122  VOICES    OF   THE    BORDER. 

Mother !  like  a  soldier's  bride, 
Dying  in  a  crimson  shroud. 

Mother !  hold  in  thine  my  hand, 

See  how  swiftly  fades  the  day  ! 
Let  the  breeze  from  battle  land 

O'er  my  burning  temples  stray  ! 
Music,  like  a  cymbal's  tone, 

Strangely  rings  upon  my  ear ; 
If  it  be  his  spirit-moan, 

Tell  him  that  his  bride  is  near. 

Mother !  but  the  tears  which  flow 

Down  thy  cheek,  drop  fast  on  mine 
Weep  not,  mother,  that  I  go 

Where  the  stars  forever  shine ! 
Mid  the  sky  that  ne'er  was  dim, 

Far  beyond  the  trumpet's  swell, 
Grieve  not  that  I  seek  for  him  ! 

Mother !  mother  !  fare  thee  well ! 


IGNORANCE   AND  BEAUTY. 

WITH  cureless  wound  man's  breast  would  smart, 

Pierced  by  that  eye  of  blue, 
Did  not  the  tongue  restore  the  heart, 

The  eye  might  else  undo. 


FALSE    GAYETY. 

SHE  hath  decked  her  hair  with  a  wreath  of  light ; 

Those  gems  they  are  soft  and  clear, 
For  ere  they  slept  mid  her  curls  to-night, 

She  washed  them  with  a  tear. 


THE   RESTLESS   ONE. 

SHE  knew  his  brow  was  clouded, 

And  she  leaned  it  on  her  hand, 
And  gently  wooed  him  to  her  side 

With  breath  like  breezes  bland. 
But  his  eyes  had  caught  a  banner 

With  its  tassels  flaunting  wide, 
And  while  he  gazed  upon  its  stars, 

They  won  him  from  his  bride. 

They  lured  him  from  the  presence 

Of  the  cherished  and  the  true, 
No  more  to  gaze  upon  her  face, 

Her  gentle  smile  to  view ; 
And  yet  through  life's  long  pathway, 

When  the  aisles  of  hope  grew  dim, 
Bright  as  a  deed  of  glory 

Was  the  smile  she  wore  for  him. 

She  knew  they  must  be  parted, 
Ere  they  had  scarcely  met, 

And  faster  tear-drops  dimmed  her  eyes 
That  none  but  hers  were  wet. 

And  she  wove  a  song  of  sorrow, 
Which  she  taught  unto  her  lute,  — 


126  VOICES   OF   THE  BORDER. 

But  the  trumpet  had  a  deeper  charm, 
And  the  lover's  lip  was  mute. 

He  left  the  song  of  Beauty, 

For  the  music  of  the  plain, 
The  lowly  breathing  of  the  lyre, 

For  paeans  o'er  the  slain  ; 
And  yet  that  lyre,  sweet-chorded, 

That  voice  like  a  mock-bird's  tone,  — 
For  him  were  garnered  all  its  notes, 

For  him  it  sang  alone. 

Time  was  Love's  smile  might  conquer 

What  the  sword  could  ne'er  alarm, 
When   strong  was  woman's  lowly  prayer 

As  the  might  of  the  mailed  arm. 
But  the  magic  charm  is  over, 

And  the    siren  voice  is  dumb, 
While  Love  forsakes  his  gentle  lute, 

For  the  roll  of  the  daring  drum. 


THE    CHILD'S   REQUIEM. 

BABY,  sleep!  serenely  closing, 

Droops  thine    eyelid's  jetty  fringe  ; 

Death  upon  thy  cheek  reposing, 

Slowly  steals  its  vernal  tinge. 

Though  no  father's  voice  may  bless  thee, 
Though  no  mother's  arm  caress  thee, 
Never  more  shall  grief  distress  thee, 
Baby,  sleep. 

Baby,  sleep !  in  peace  reclining, 

Gently  rests  thy  lowly  head, 

Angel  faces  brightly  shining, 

Smile  above  thy  cradle-bed. 

Of  the  eye  that  weeps  at  waking, 
Of  the  heart  that  fills  to  breaking, 
Thou  shalt  never  know  the  aching, 
Baby,  sleep. 

Baby,  sleep  !  no  morn  of  sorrow 

Rises  on  thy  night  of  pain ; 

Bright,  though  distant,  is  the  morrow 

When  thy  lip  shall  smile  again. 

Till  the  hour  —  in  clouds  descending 
Comes  the  Judge,  a  world  befriending, 
Mid  hosannas  never  ending, 

Baby,  sleep. 


THE   RETURN. 

JOYS  that  were  tasted 

May  sometimes  return  ; 
But  the  torch  when  once  wasted. 

Ah !  how  may  it  burn  ! 
Splendors  now  clouded, 

Ah  !  when  will  ye  shine  ? 
Broke  is  the  goblet, 

And  perished  the  wine. 

Many  the  changes 

Since  we  last  met, 
Blushes  have  brightened, 

And  eyes  have  been  wet ; 
Friends  have  been  scattered, 

Like  roses  in  bloom  ; 
Some  at  the  bridal, 

And  some  at  the  tomb. 

I  stood  in  yon  chamber, 

But  one  was  not  there  ; 
Hushed  was  a  lute-string, 

And  vacant  a  chair. 
Lips  of  love's  melody, 

Where  are  ye  borne  ? 
Never  to  smile  again, — 

Never  to  mourn. 


IMPROMPTU 

ON   BEING  ASKED    TO   WRITE    SOMETHING    DESCRIPTIVE   OF   THE 

EYES  OF    A    CERTAIN    COQUETTE,    WHO   WAS    REPRESENTED 

TO    BK    A    "  VERY   BEWITCHING    CREATURE." 

'T  is  well  to  discourse  upon  eyes  of  cerulean, 
Meek    ones   and   mild   ones,  eyes   lustrous   and 

rich, 
On  the    bright   ones  of  Susan,  the    dark   ones   of 

Julianne, 
But  what  shall  we  say  of  the  eyes  that  bewitch  ? 

A  difficult,  dangerous  subject  to  light  upon, 
(However  you  view  it,  most  surely  it  is,) 
For    those    very  same    eyes   which    seem   model'd 

to  write  upon, 

Are  the  last  ones  to  languish   and  first  ones  to 
quiz. 


THE   LORE   OF   LOVE. 

"  MOTHER,  what  meant  the  sibil  when 
She  bid  me  shun  the  gaze  of  men, 
And  said,  while  weeping  'neath  the  yew, 
'  Beware  the  hour  of  evening  dew  ?  ' 
The  eye  of  youth  is  sweet  to  see, 
It  cannot  lurk  with  harm  for  me ; 
And  soft  the  eve  with  sunset  red, — 
The  vesper  hour  I  may  not  dread." 

"  Such  warning  dark,  O  daughter  young, 
Flows  not  alone  from  sibil  tongue. 
The  strongest  spell  in  Passion's  bower 
Is  that  which  binds  the  twilight  hour ; 
And  eyes  which  seem  of  softest  shade 
Are  those  which  look  on  love  betrayed." 

"And  is  it  thus,  —  then,  mother,  why 
Doth  crimson  crown  the  sunset  sky, 
And  glances  beam  with  azure  light, 
If  full  of  danger,  death,  and  blight  ? 
Is  maiden's  heart  a  thing  to  grieve, 
That  Hope  may  mock,  and  Love  deceive  ? " 


SONGS  OF  THE  BOWER.  131 

"  O  daughter  fair,  go  first  explain, 
Why  floats  the  cloud  and  falls  the  rain, 
With  deep  research  next  seek  to  know 
Why  green  the  leaf,  and  white  the  snow, 
And,  last  of  all,  discover  why 
Both  joy  and  grief  should  heave  the  sigh : 
When  these  by  Reason's  rule  ye  prove, 
Then  may  you  learn  the  lore  of  Love." 


THE   LORE   OF    TEARS. 

"  MOTHER,  why  is  it  when  I  trace 
The  tear  which  falls  on  sister's  face, 
It  seems  to  me  so  bright  and  fair 
I  almost  wish  't  was  always  there ; 
But  when,  sometimes,  by  soft  surprise, 
I  've  caught  the  tear  in  father's  eyes, 
Those  cherished  orbs  looked  up  so  dim, 
That,  oh !  I  've  turned  and  wept  with  him  ? 
Mother,  I'm  but  a  maiden  young, — 
Inform  my  heart  and  teach  my  tongue." 

"  Come  hither,  child  of  tender  years, 
And  learn  of  me  the  '  lore"  of  tears.' 
When  sorrow  pours,  with  drops  that  gleam, 
On  woman's  cheek  the  crystal  stream, 
It  is  a  sign  by  which  to  tell 
The  heart  that  aches  will  soon  be  well ; 
A  measure  kind  which  transient  grief 
Ordains  to  bring  the  heart  relief; 
A  token  that  the  mists  of  care 
Will  rise  and  leave  the  rainbow  there. 
But  when  the  tears  of  woman  weak 
Are  seen  on  manhood's  hardy  cheek, 


SONGS   OF   THE  BOWER.  133 

They  come,  like  heralds,  to  proclaim 

The  storm  which  shakes  his  thunder  frame ; 

The  struggle  of  the  fires  which  burn 

Within  the  bosom's  heaving  urn  ; 

The  effort  of  the  tempest  wave, 

Heart-bound  to  burst  its  passion  cave. 

If  e'er  't  is  thine,  oh   daughter  fair, 

To  watch  beside  his  brow  of  care, 

By  every  tie  which  mercy  forms, 

Deal  gently  with  that  heart  of  storms." 


THE    OUTCAST. 

THEY  never  more  may  breathe  her  name, 

That  cherished  name  of  gentle  tone, 
'T  is  blotted  out  in  lines  of  shame 

On  every  page  where  once  it  shone. 
Oh  !  may  you  never,  never  know 

The  startling  dream  which  haunts  her  rest, 
Since  that  sad  hour  her  conscious  brow 

Was  lent  to  warm  a  faithless   breast ! 

That  brow,  whose  changing  lines  were  such 

As  charmed  the  wondering  painter's  view, 
At  which  the  master,  gazing  much, 

Forgot  his  easel  as  he  drew ; 
The  loftiest  far  among  the  proud, 

And  loveliest  still  amid  the  fair, 
No  more  shall  tempt  the  glittering  crowd 

To  forge  the  chains  they  smiled  to  wear. 

That  voice,  between  whose  words  of  guile 
Such  witching  tones  of  passion  rung, 

That  Music's  self  would  pause  the  while, 
Neglectful  of  the  lute  she  strung, 

No  longer  mid  the  tuneful  choir 

Shall  strive  to  wake  the  trembling  lay, 


SONGS   OF  THE  BOWER.  135 

Nor  Love  nor  Friendship  more  aspire 
To  sigh  beneath  its  thrilling  sway. 

Yes !  looks  and  words  alike  are  vain  ; 

Though  smiles  may  soothe  and  prayers  may  win, 
They  cannot  break  the  galling  chain 

Which  binds  the  victim  child  of  sin. 
Like  some  frail  bark  upon  the  wave, 

Deserted  by  the  idle  air, 
Not  all  the  power  which  man  may  have 

Can  burst  the  spell  which  keeps  it  there. 


THE    DISCARDED. 

Is  woman's  love  so  lightly  won, 

Obedient  to  call, 
That  like  the  lyre  ye  play  upon, 

'T  will  change  and  sigh  with  all  ? 
Go  tell  him  from  this  hour  we  part, 

We  own  no  mutual  shrine, — 
I  will  not  brook  another's  heart 

Should  share  the  joys  of  mine. 

My  step  is  light,  my  smile  is  gay, 

Nor  yet  my  eye  is  dim,  — 
Go  tell  him  how  in  halls  I  stray, 

And  never  think  of  him  ; 
And  how.  at  eve,  when  music's  tone 

Comes  gushing  o'er  the  air, 
I  feel  not  in  my  bower  alone, 

Nor  miss  his  presence  there. 

I  do  not  love,  —  I  do  not  hate,  — 

It  were  an  idle  thing! 
In  puling  strain  I  will  not  prate, 

Nor  yet  the  gauntlet   fling ; 
But  tell  him,  as  some  passing  gleam 

That  flits  along  the  lea, 


SONGS   OF   THE   BOVVER.  137 

Or  like  a  shadow  on  a  stream, 
His  memory  is  to  me. 

Perchance  he  thought,  with  simple  guile, 

To  prove  me  like  a  sword, 
And  hung  with  cunning  craft  the  while 

o  o 

Upon  the  stranger's  word  ; 
But  tell  him,  when  he  left  my  side, 

I  knew  not  that  he  went ; 
Nor  shall  I  clothe  my  lip  with  pride, 

Nor  sigh  with  discontent. 

Ye  voices  soft,  why  o'er  my  heart 

Come  with  your  promptings  kind? 
And  has  he  tasted  of  the  smart 

Which  stings  an  anguished  mind  ? 
I  care  not  for  his  troubled  sleep,  — 

Yet  whisper  in  his  ear, 
My  eye  is  not  too  proud  to  weep,  — 

But  frozen  is  the  tear. 

And  tell  him,  though  his  every  look 

Cold  distance  shuns  to  see, 
Though  like  a  falsely  labelled  book 

His  name  is  now  to  me, 
And  though  no  more  like  music  bland 

His  voice  may  haunt  my  rest,  — 
/  wear  his  jewel  on  my  hand, 

His  image  on  my  breast. 


LOVE'S    PERFIDY. 

"  THE  waning  moon  with  crescent  pale 

Shines  faintly  o'er  the  lea, 
My  bark  is  near,  and  light  the  gale, 

Oh  maiden,  fly  with  me  ! 
By  all  yon  starry  orbs  I  swear 

That  thou  my  bride  shall  be  ! 
Then  trust  my  oath  and  hear  my  prayer, 

Oh  maiden,  fly  with  me." 

"  Though  bright  the  evening  sky  awhile, 

Its  hues  will  soon   decay, 
And  oh !  they  say  a  lover's  smile 

As  soon  will  fade  away. 
The  night  is  dark  and  lone  the  hour, 

And  false  the  summer  sea ; 
I  cannot  leave  my  greenwood  bower, 

I  cannot  fly  with  thee." 

"The  summer  rose  may  cease  to  blow 

Beside  thy  native   rill ; 
That  gentle  stream   may  cease  to  flow 

Adown  the  distant  hill; 
Yon  pine  no  more  those  walls  may  shade, 

And  seared  its  leaves  may  be,        , 


SONGS   OF  THE  BOWER.  139 

Yet  still  I  '11  love  my  mountain  maid ; 
Then  maiden,  fly  with  me." 

Within  the  maiden's  lonely  bower 

Still  blooms  the  summer  rose  ; 
Beside  the  castle's  bannered  tower 

That  gentle  stream  still  flows; 
And  o'er  the  turret's  frowning  height 

Yet  rocks  that  forest  tree,  — 
But  ah  !   the  maid  hath  wept  the  night 

She  sought  with  Love  to  flee ! 


ROSALIE. 

ALONE,  alone,  my  Rosalie  ! 
She  sleeps  beneath  the  church-yard  tree ! 
By  yonder  mound  with  daisies  strewn  ; 
Her  couch  is  there  —  alone  —  alone  ! 
Lo !  yon  dim  star,  whose  lustre  pale 
Scarce  struggles  through  its  misty  veil ! 
Each  night,  e'er  yet  its  shining  crest 
Is  cradled  'neath  the  burning  west, 

O 

There  comes  a  wild  and  lonely  ray 

To  linger  o'er  her  home  of  clay. 

That  star  —  that  star  —  't  was  in  its  gleam 

We  met,  and  mused  by  wood  and  stream  ; 

The  witness  lone  of  every  sigh 

We  breathed  beneath  its  presence  high. 

Oh  !    then  were  hours  of  mystic   sway 

Would  suit  the  maze  of  numbers  well, 
Had  minstrel  words  to  weave  the  lay, 

Had  minstrel  strings  the  tones  to   tell. 
Her  heart  was  like  the  lava  rock, 

Kindled  at  some  Promethean  ray, 
Unmoved,  save  by  Love's  lightning  shock, 

And  yielding  then  —  to  melt  away. 
To  love  our  souls  gave  equal  birth, 

Each  burned  with  simultaneous  flame; 


SONGS   OF   THE  BOWER.  141 

One  was  the  dross  of  sense  and  earth, 
And  one  was  such  as  angels  name. 

I  asked  her  not  to  be  my  bride, 

No  prayers  were  breathed,  no  vows  were  sworn, 

Yet  were  our  souls  so  close  allied 
I  could  not  break  the  fetter  strong. 

O 

Ah,  Rosalie  !  my  heart  was  true, 
And  yet  my  hand  was  not  for  you  ! 
Thrice  hapless  hour  I  called  thee  mine, 

Of  all  thy  after  years  the  bane, 
The  dream  of  joy  was  deeply  thine, 

And  thine  the  anguish  —  thine  the  stain  ! 
Too  fragile  dream  —  too  hapless  lot  — 
Yet  would'st  thou  I  had  loved  thee  not? 

As  melts  the  cloud  along  the  west, 
Her  sunset  smile  went  down  on  me, 

As  if  her  soul  in  joy  caressed 

The  parting  pang  which  made  it  free. 

While  bending  o'er  that  brow  where  oft 

O 

My  vigil  heart  had  watched  before, 
When  in  the  dream  of  rapture  soft, 

Which  it  was  doomed  to  know  no  more, 
I  saw  a  hand  of  hectic  hue 
Stamp  on  her  cheek  its  signet  true, 
And  by  the  flashing  of  her  eye 
I  read  the  sign  —  my  love  must  die ! 
I  read!  and  dashed  the  tear  aside 
For  her  I  ne'er  had  called  my  bride, 


142  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

And  wore  a  smile  that  none  might  know 
My  bosom's  wilderness  of  woe. 

But  she,  without  a  throb  of  pain, 

Smiled  on  and  lingered  still, 
So  calm  and  meek,  that  hope  again 

Began  my  heart  to  fill ; 
As  if  the  angel  who  was  sent 

Her  soul  upon  his  wings  to  bear, 
Paused  o'er  the  spirit's  monument, 

Enraptured  with  a  mould  so  rare. 

But  when  to  kiss  her  dimpled  mouth 

The  spring-breeze  wandered  from  the  south, 

And  when  the  buds,  —  be  still  my  heart, 

Or  break  at  once  and  drown  my  pain !  — 
The  young  buds  swelled  with  quickening  start, 

To  dress  for  her  their  bloom  again  ; 
Just  as  appeared  the  first-blown  flower, 
As  come  to  crown  the  bridal  hour, 
The  shadowy  cypress  reared  its  head 
Above  her  cold  and  dreary  bed. 
Alone,  alone,  my  Rosalie ! 
She  sleeps  beneath  the  church-yard  tree. 


FRAGMENT. 

OFT  in  the  dream  of  night, 
When  sleep  unfolds  the  curtained  world  to  me, 
Thine  eye  I  meet,  thy  slender  form  I  see, 
Gliding  by  mossy  rock  and  birchen  tree, 

Through  the  dim  vision  light. 

Thy  voice  comes  o'er  my  ear ! 
And  its  low  music  with  a  lute-like  sound, 
Prophetic  hangs  my  boding  heart  around. 
As  erst  't  was  wont  beside  the  far,  far  mound 

Where  slept  the  forest  deer. 


THE   DYING   PENITENT. 

THE  winds  that  in  the  morn  had  slept, 

Now  gently  stole  adown  the  lea, 
To  murmur  where  Eliza  wept, 

Beside  the  lonely  trysting  tree. 
But  though  serene  the  sigh  which  swayed 

Those  bosoms  of  the  viewless  air, 
Each  breath  but  caused  a  deeper  shade 

To  veil  the  brow  which  languished  there. 

Then,  soft,  like  ocean's  tenderest  moan, 

Which  grief  through  tears  would  smile  to  hear, 
There  came  a  wave  of  gurgling  tone, 

With  strains  to  glad  Eliza's  ear ; 
But  vainly  bears  that  gentle  wave, 

Rich  melodies  from  ocean's  grot,  — 
Not  all  the  tones  the  sirens  have, 

May  soothe  the  pang  which  sleepeth  not. 

Just  then,  from  out  the  dying  day 

Fast  sinking  down  the  west,  a  streak 
Of  golden  sunset  chanced  to  stray, 

And  trembled  on  Eliza's  cheek. 
"  Oh  !  pledge  of  Hope,  too  brightly  given, 

I  weep  no  more,"  the  frail  one  cried, 
And  gazing  on  that  type  of  Heaven, 

The  lone  Eliza  smiled  —  and  died. 


THE    FOREVER   LOST. 

ALONG  thy  features,  wan  with  care, 

My  earnest  glances  turn  to  dwell, 
Although  I  read  depictured  there 

What  once  my  lips  had  clung  to  tell. 
The  clouded  type  of  one  I  trace 

Who  sought  the  rose,  but  plucked  the  rue  ; 
Whose  constant  tear  may  ne'er  efface 

The  burning  deed  she  sighed  to  do ; 

Of  one  who  toyed  with  Passion's  spell, 

Till  lost  beneath  the  wildering  wave  ; 
Of  one  pale  Virtue  weeps  to  tell, 

The  victim  child  she  could  not  save. 
As  gleams  at  morn  the  dew-bright  gem, 

So  once  thy  bud  of  fortune  shone, 
But  shaken  from  the  parent  stem, 

Now  scorned  and  crushed  it  droops  alone. 

And  yet  not  all  unblest  to  thee 

The  boon  thy  heart  quailed  not  to  give ; 

That  waning  cheek  a  sign  shall  be, 

Toward  which  frail  youth  may  look  and  live. 

To  treacherous  seas,  when  storms  are  past, 
Soft  winds  may  woo  with  temptings  fair, 
10 


146  VOICES   OF   Trite   BORDER. 

But  he  who  sees  the  shattered  mast 
Not  soon  forgets  the  danger  there. 

Oh  !  shadowy  dream  of  transient  bliss  ! 

Why  come  ye  thus  in  semblance  mild, 
With  Faith's  low  phrase  and  Love's  soft  kiss, 

To  lure  from  heaven  its  thoughtless  child  ? 

O 

Where'er,  henceforth,  your  altars  glow, 
Far  let  their  warning  beacons  shine, 

That  all  the  perjured  spot  may  know, 

Where  Falsehood  rears  her  faithless  shrine. 


MATILDA. 

AND  thou  art  faded  like  a  ray 

Which  melts  upon  the  sight ! 
I  thought  to  gaze  upon  the  day, 

But  look  upon  the  night. 
The  hope  that  rose,  a  falcon  fair, 

Floats  by  on  idle  wing  ; 
The  dove  that  smote  the  morning  air 

Hath  proved  a  vanished  thing. 

Where  art  thou,  sister  of  my  heart, 

Where  art  thou  in  thy  mirth  ? 
Come,  and  fulfill  thy  wonted  part 

Beside  our  father's  hearth. 
I  stand  within  thy  chamber  where 

Last  thrilled  thy  laughing  tone; 
I  cannot  brook  that  vacant  chair, 

Sister,  where  art  thou  gone? 

I  thought  to  hear  thy  song  elate 
Resounding  from  my  home, 

To  meet  thee  bounding  to  the  gate, 
As  thou  wert  wont  to  come. 

I  find  the  lute  within  thy  bower, 
But  not  the  hand  to  play, 


148  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

How  dreary  seems  the  sunset  hour  ! 
Why  art  thou  thus  away  ? 

The  cloth  is  laid,  the  board  is  spread, 

Come  to  thy  brother's  call ! 
Yon  echo,  answering  to   my  tread, 

Sounds  lonely  through  the  hall. 
Come,  with  thy  prattling  voice  of  love, 

And  with  thy  smile  of  cheer ; 
The  house  seems  chill  and  sad  the  grove, 

Sister,  thou  art  not  here. 

Yes,  thou  art  faded,  like  a  ray 

Which  melts  upon  the  sight; 
I  thought  to  gaze  upon  the  day, 

But  look  upon  the  night. 
Thy  spirit  form  hath  stretched  its  wing, 

And  left  my  hearth  alone  ; 
Thy  spirit  voice,  where  angels  sing, 

Awakes  its  angel  tone. 

Above  thy  bower  the  tresseled  vine 

Once  more  the  de.w  may  wet, 
The  sun  within  thy  chamber  shine 

As  though  he  ne'er  had  set ; 
The  bird  return  unto  the  tree, 

The  fold  unto  the  plain, 
All  be  revived  in  turn  —  but  thee : 

Thou  shalt  not  come  again. 


THE  DESERTED   BRIDE. 

'T  is  past  the  hour  of  evening  prayer, 

What  lonely  watch  is  mine ! 
I  hear  thy  step  upon  the  stair, — 

No,  no,  it  is  not  thine. 
'T  was  but  a  sound  the  tempest  made 
Along  the  moaning  balustrade. 

What  circean  spells,  what  siren  charms, 

What  words  of  secret  art, 
Thus  keep  thee  from  my  longing  arms, 

Oh  partner  of  my  heart ! 
And  am  I  not  thy  chosen  bride, 
The  flower  that  blooms  but  at  thy  side  ? 

Soft  words  may  fall  from  lips  refined, 
From  eyes  soft  glances  shine, 

But  mid  the  crowd  thou  may'st  not  find 
A  heart  which  loves  like  mine. 

The  very  tear  thy  coldness  brings 

Seems  welcome,  since  for  thee  it  springs. 

Have  I  not  smiled  when  thou  wert  gay, 
Wept  did  thy  look  reprove, 


150  VOICES   OF   THE  BORDER. 

Loved  thee  as  woman  sometimes  may, 

As  man  can  never  love  ? 
All  this  —  yea  more,  't  was  mine  to  give, 
And  unrequited  —  lo  !  I  live. 

Yet  thou  did'st  once  with  accents  bland 

Beside  me  bend  the  knee. 
And  swear  in  truth  this  little  hand 

Was  more  than  worlds  to  thee. 
This  jeweled  hand  —  what  is  it  now  ? 
The  token  of  a  broken  vow. 

Oh,  love  !   how  oft  the  bridal  ring 

Binds  fast  its  golden  tie, 
To  make  the  heart  a  slighted  thing 

Ye  pass  unheeded  by  ! 
The  charm  is  broke  —  the  spell  is  gone  - 
And  conscious  woman  weeps  alone. 


THE   DEAD   MOTHER. 

"  SHE  sleeps  —  how  long  she  sleeps  —  the  sun  hath 

sunk  beneath  the  west, 
And  risen  twice,  yet  still  she  keeps  that  deep  and 

quiet  rest. 
Why  did  they  stand  beside   her   couch   and   weep 

with  such  ado? 
Come  hither,  brother ;   thou  and  I  will  gaze  upon 

her  too. 
Yet  stay,  we  will   not  go   there  yet  —  but  let   us 

wait  until 
The  sinking  sun  again  hath  set  —  and  all  around 

is  still, 
Except  the  spirit-winds  which  rise  like  wailings  on 

the  air, 
Then  will  we  step  in  silence  forth  and  gaze  together 

there. 

"Sister,  tread  softly!" 

"  Hark,  that  sound  !  " 

"  'T  is  but  the  midnight  hour 
Slow  tolling  deep  and  heavily,  from  yonder  distant 

tower  ! 

Come  hither,  sweet,  nor  stay  thy  step  howe'er  thine 
eye  may  swim, 


152  VOICES  OF  THE  BORDER. 

'T  is  but  the  dull  sepulchral  lamp  which  makes  its 

vision  dim. 
Nay,  sister,   tremble   not,  —  't  is   true   the   time  is 

lone  and  drear, 
And  fitfully  the  taper  flares  that  lights  us  to  the 

bier; 

But  thou  did'st  breathe  in  earnest  tones  the  mourn 
ful  wish  but  now, 
To   come   at   midnight    hour    and   gaze    upon    thy 

mother's  brow. 
This  is  the  hour  —  and  we  have  passed  along   the 

silent  hall, 
And  here,   as   by  the   dead  we  stand,  I  lift   aside 

the  pall, 
And  here  the  coffin's  lid   I   move  —  while   thus   1 

raise  the  veil, 
Turn,  gentle  sister,  turn  and  look  upon  her  features 

pale  ! 
Stoop  down  and  kiss  the  pallid  cheek,  though  cold 

and  damp  it  be, 
Which  in  the  hour  of  song  and   mirth  so  oft  was 

pressed  by  thee, 
And  clasp  in  thine  the  lifeless  hand  stiff  folded  on 

the  breast, 
Whose   pulses  warm  were  wont   to   lull  thy  infant 

brow  to  rest !  " 

"  I  hear  thy  words,  my  brother  dear ;  I  'm  leaning 

o'er  the  spot ; 
And  do  I  see  a  parent's  face  ?   alas !  I  know  it  not. 


SONGS   OF  THE  BOWER.  153 

What !  this  my  mother  ?     No,  oh  no,  not  this  on 

which  I  gaze ; 
Her  eyes  were  bright,  like  a'ngel's  eyes,  but  these  are 

dim  with  glaze ; 
Her  lips   were   smiling,   like  the  sky  which  never 

knew  a  cloud, 
But  these   are  silent,  cold  and  pale,  —  pale  as  the 

winding  shroud. 
They  told  me  that  she  only  slept,  and  that  she  still 

was  fair 
As  when  her   hand    of  snow-drop  lay   against   her 

raven  hair. 
But  as  I  gaze  upon  this  cheek,  there  lies  a  shadow 

deep, 
And  on  the  brow  a  fixedness  they  never  wore  in 

sleep ; 

While  for  the  purple  vein,  I  trace  a  line  of  dark  de 
cay, — 
No !  this  is  not  the  form  I  loved,  this  ghastly  thing 

of  clay ! " 


THE   LUTE   AND   SHELL. 

SING  mournfully,  sing  mournfully, 

The  lute  hath  lost  a  string ; 
I  heard  the  snapping  of  the  chord 

Which  never  more  will  ring. 
All  trembling  'neath  some  careless  hand, 

Deep  thrilled,  and  died  the  strain  ; 
Sing  mournfully,  sing  mournfully,  — 

'T  will  never  wake  again  ! 

Strike,  strike  the  lyre  with  gladder  sound! 

A  shell  of  brilliance  rare 
Is  brought  from  Ocean's  farthest  bound 

To  blaze  in  Beauty's  hair. 
But  ah  !  some  chisel's  heedless  touch 

Hath  dimmed  its  changing  hue  : 
Sing  mournfully,  sing  mournfully,  — 

That  shell  is  broken  too. 

Oh !  ye  who  toy  with  gentle  Love, 

Treat,  treat  him  kind  and  well  ; 
One  careless  look  and  he  may  prove 

Like  shattered  lute  and  shell. 
One  heedless  word  may  quench  the  light 

Of  smiles  which  so  did  shine ; 
Then  mournfully,  sing  mournfully, — 

A  broken  heart  is  thine. 


I   COME   TO  THY    PRESENCE. 

I  COME  to  thy  presence 

To  worship  and  woo, 
With  none  to  befriend  me, 

Undaunted  I  sue  ; 
I  care  not,  thou  fair  one, 

So  thee  I  may  win, 
For  suitors  without, 

Or  for  guardians  within. 

The  long-buried  secret, 

Now,  now  I  impart, 
The  chain  of  thy  beauty 

Hath  worn  to  my  heart. 
The  tones  to  make  happy 

Thy  lips  ever  bear 
Have  haunted  my  bosom 

Like  shadow  and  care. 

Oh !  bright  but  untried  one, 

Hear  not  with  disdain  ; 
Thy  smile  is  my  pleasure, 

Thy  frown  is  my  pain. 
But  speak,  and  I  care  not, 

So  thee  I  may  win, 
For  suitors  without, 

Or  for  guardians  within. 


MY  BOSOM  IS  A   SEPULCHRE. 

MY  bosom  is  a  sepulchre 

Where  Sorrow  loves  to  stay ; 
A  shadow  lies  upon  my  heart, 

And  will  not  flit  away. 
In  vain  the  proffered  word  of  cheer, 

Or  tone  of  music  deep ; 
My  bosom  is  a  sepulchre, 

Where  Sorrow  loves  to  weep. 

Life's  natal  star  shone  joyously, 

'T  was  like  a  sun  to  me ; 
But  e'er  the  twilight  left  the  sky, 

It  set  beneath  the  sea. 
No  suppliant  look  may  call  it  back, 

Nor  word  of  pleading  prayer,  — 
My  bosom  is  a  sepulchre, 

And  Hope  is  buried  there. 

Speak  not  of  forms   affectionate, 

Of  flowers  whose  hues  are  fled, 
For  Hope  to  me  is  like  the  rose 

Which  bloometh  with  the  dead. 
Oh  !  what  unto  that  icy  brow 

The  perfume  of  the  leaf? 
My  bosom  is  a  sepulchre 

For  buried  Hope  and  Grief. 


THE  RED  ROSE;  OR,  PRIDE  REPROVED. 

A  RED  rose  hung  upon  a  tree, 

A  rose  't  was  passing  fair  to  see, 

Half  shrinking  from  the  morning  ray, 

With  blushes  soft  as  dying  day. 

A  maid  who  trod  the  early  dew 

Espied  that  rose  of  sunset  hue, 

And  'raptured  with  its  beauty  rare, 

Purloined  it  for  her  shining  hair. 

"  Sweet  flower,"  exclaimed  the  girl,  "  to-night 

I  '11  twine  thee  mid  my  ringlets  bright, 

And  not  a  brow,  whose  cinctures  shine 

With  gems  of  cost,  shall  vie  with  mine." 

But  when  at  length  pale  evening  came, 
To  veil  with  shadows   sunset's  flame, 
When  the  last  beams  of  light  withdrew, 
The  rose  with  day  had  faded  too. 
Too  late  the  maid  bewailed  the  hour 
For  sake  of  self  she  plucked  the  flower. 
While  to  the  spot  her  fancy  clung, 
Where  breathing  sweet  at  morn  it  hung, 
With  altered  look   and  tone  of  grief, 
She  murmured  o'er  the  drooping  leaf: 


158  VOICES   OF   THE  BORDER. 

"  I  thought  with  thee,  oh  rose  of  day, 
To  rule  the  night  with  haughty  sway, 
Where,  mistress  of  the  crowded  room, 
'T  was  mine  to  smile,  and  thine  to  bloom. 
But  ah!  a  lesson  meet  for  pride, 
I  have  but  wept  —  and  thou  hast  died." 


STANZAS    FOR  MUSIC. 

I  MET  thee  in  the  dance,  love, 

I  saw  thine  eye  of  light, 
And  oh  !  its  every  glance,  love, 

Will  haunt  my  couch  to-night. 
Thou  mournest  for  the  weed,  love, 

Which  withers  mid  thy  hair, 
But  little  wilt  thou  heed,  love, 

The  tale  my  lips  declare. 

Thy  gentle  voice  I  heard,  love, 

I  hung  upon  its  tone, 
And  oh  !   thy  every  word,  love, 

Was  soft  as  music's  own. 
The  swan  is  on  the  stream,  love, 

The  linnet  on  the  spray ; 
Come,  where  the  billows  gleam,  love, 

And  listen  to  my  lay. 

I  weave  a  mystic  wreath,  love, 

Thou  know'st,  and  only  thou ; 
'T  is  fragrant  as  thy  breath,  love, 

'T  is  stainless  as  thy  brow. 
I  cast  it  where  thy  feet,  love, 

Will  roam  beside  the  sea, 
To  breathe  in  language  sweet,  love, 

Of  him  who  lives  for  thee. 
NEW   ORLEANS,  May,  1838. 


THE    EAGLE   AND    DOVE. 

'T  is  the  bird  of  Jove's  thunder ! 

'T  is  the  wing  of  Love's  joy  ! 
Why  roam  ye  together, 

Thou  fierce  one  and  coy  ? 

In  the  path  of  the  lightning 

Ye  traverse  the  sky, 
What  hold  ye  in  union 

Oh  low  one  and  high  ? 

Through  clouds  ye  float  proudly, 
But,  weak  one,  beware ! 

Thy  pinions  once  weary, 
Thy  home  is  not  there. 

'T  is  the  sky  for  the  mighty  ! 

'T  is  the  spray  for  the  small ! 
Low  bird  with  the  lofty. 

Come  back  ere  ye  fall. 

Oh,  look  at  Love's  picture, 

I  draw  at  your  side ! 
Ill-matched  from  the  altar 

Goes  bridegroom  and  bride. 


SONGS   OF  THE   BOWER.  161 

One  proud  and  high-titled, 

And  stern  to  reprove  ; 
One  meek,  but  undowered, 

And  born  but  for  love. 

Together  —  together 

They  speed  on  their  flight,  — 
They  float  through  life's  ether, 

That  dark  one  and  bright,  — 

Till  chilled  and  benighted, 

Unskilled  thus  to  fly, 
The  wing  of  that  gentle  one 

Fails  in  the  sky. 

SUWANEE  SPRINGS,  Florida. 


11 


THE    BRIDE'S    PRAYER. 

FATHER!  I  come  to  Thee,  a  handmaid  weak, 
Whose  lips  have  scarcely  breathed  their  bridal  vow, 

But,  bathed  in  tears,  Thy  holy  shrine  I  seek, 
For  shadowy  care  sits  heavy  on  my  brow. 

In  gifts  of  love  though  manifold  Thou  art, 

One  prayer  I  word,  one  only  boon  I  crave,  — 

He  leaves  me,  Father,  tears  me  from  his  heart ; 
Watch,  bless,  and  guide  him  o'er  the  pathless  wave. 

I  suffer  for  his  sake ;  —  these  vigil  eyes 

Grow  heavy  with  a  sense  of  outward  weight  ; 

Too  deeply  have  I  gazed  upon  the  skies, 

Scanning  the  burning  star  which  rules  his  fate. 

I  tempt  Thee  with  an  offering ;  —  Father,  look 
With  kindness  on  me,  —  listen  to  my  prayer  ! 

My  heart  such  anxious  throbbing  may  not  brook, 
Sinking  it  is  with  doubt  and  dark  despair. 

This,  the  sole  offspring  of  our  mutual  love, 

O'er  whose  soft  smile  these  watching  eyes  grow 
dim, 

Father,  if  Thee  love's  sacrifice  can  move, 

My  arms  present,  oh,  wild  exchange!  for  him. 


SONGS   OF  THE  BOWER.  163 

Shield,  shield  him  from  the  tempest  when  its  wing 
With  restless  wandering  sweeps  his  ocean  bed, 

When  round    his   couch   mad  waves   hope's  death- 
knell  ring, 
And  heaving  billows  lift  his  tossing  head. 

Have  mercy  on  him,  Father,  —  if  I  weep 
It  is  but  woman's  tear,  —  I  trust  in  Thee ; 

Let  from  the  cloud  which  thunders  o'er  the  deep 
Thy  rainbow  smile  beam  down  and  calm  the  sea. 

Whate'er  his  sins,  blot  out  or  call  them  mine, 
So  thou  uphold'st  him  on  the  crested  wave  : 

The  prayer  of  love,  of  faith,  ascends  thy  shrine,  — 
I  kneel,  I  plead,  I  wrestle,  —  Father,  save ! 


DREAM    OF    THE  BETROTHED. 

WIPE  off  the  anguish  from  my  brow, 

Damp  with  the  dews  of  pain, 
Father,  I  had  a  dream  but  now 

Which  must  not  come  again. 
Mid  crowded  aisles  I  seemed  to  stand, 

Decked  as  they  deck  a  bride, 
They  placed  a  ring  upon  my  hand 

And  took  me  from  thy  side. 

I  breathed  the  censor's  fragrance  where 

The  clouded  incense  fell, 
I  heard  amid  the  chanted  prayer 

The  organ's  lordly  swell ; 
And  oh !  my  bosom  heaved  the  sigh 

Which  rapture  loves  to  wake  — 
But  when  I  caught  my  father's  eye, 

Methought  my  heart  would  break. 

With  wreaths  of  love  from  myrtles  wrought, 

To  bind  my  hair  they  came, 
And  many  a  gentle  lip  was  fraught 

With  phrases  sweet  to  name  ; 
But  when  thy  brow,  eclipsed  in  woe, 

Like  twilight  o'er  me  shone, 


SONGS   OF  THE  BOWER.  165 

I  thought  it  was  unkind  to  go, 
And  turned  —  and  wept  alone. 

Yet  to  these  eyes  in  tears  upraised 

They  gave  but  little  heed, 
They  beckoned  where  the  torchlight  blazed, 

And  bade  the  bridegroom  speed. 
I  saw  him  kneeling  at  my  feet, 

His  words  were  low  the  while, 
But  though  his  smile  was  passing  sweet, 

'T  was  not  my  father's  smile. 

He  told  of  joys  which  rapture   wove 

Beneath  the  brrdal  vine, 
And   bowers   which   breathed   with   sighs   of 
love  — 

Oh,  sweeter  far  than  thine. 
But,  father,  press  me  to  thy  heart, 

So  throbs  my  brow  with  pain, — 
That  dream  —  ah !  would  it  bid  us  part  ?  — 

It  must  not  come  again. 


TO  ADA. 

0  THOU,  whose  eyes  of  pensive  light 
Like  sunset  skies  were  born  to  shine  ! 

Thou  art  not  by  to  gild  the  night 
Of  one  whose  spirit  clings  to  thine. 

Adown  thy  cheek  the  tear  may  stray, 
He  cannot  kiss  the  crystal  dim  ;' 

Thy  tiny  lip  may  learn  to  pray, 

He  cannot  hear  the  prayer  for  him. 

To  glad  my  brow,  they  tell  me  oft 
That  thou  art  happy  far  from  me, 

But  in  the  hour  of  slumber  soft 
I  only  dream  I  live  for  thee. 

By  morn  and  eve,  thou  hallowed  part 
Of  one  affection  holds  most  dear, 

1  only  feel  where'er  thou  art, 

Thou  art  not  here  —  thou  art  not  here. 

Think  not  thy  name  abroad  I  fling 
To  court  remark  from  idle  tongue, 

I  did  but  breathe  it  o'er  the  spring 
When  soft  and  fast  the  numbers  rung. 

The  hour  will  come  when  thou  may'st  learn 
Perchance  and  love  —  thy  father's  strain  ; 


SONGS   OF   THE   BOWER.  167 

And  wilt  thou  chide  he  so  did  yearn 
To  clasp  his  cherished  child  again  ? 

Once  o'er  my  hopes  a  vision  wrought : 

To  watch  thy  growth  I  seemed  to  stand, 
While,  through  the  glass  which  Fancy   brought, 

I  saw  thee  bloom  beneath  my  hand. 
And  it  was  sweet  to  feel  the  while, 

Indulging  in  that  mood  of  air, 
How  oft  thy  lip  with  tender  smile 

More  than  repaid  a  father's  care. 

Alas  !  that  dream  of  heavenly  ray 

No  longer  now  its  radiance  sheds, 
Where  bright  its  path  of  glory  lay, 

The  phantom  Future  darkly  treads. 
And  ah  !  that  glass  which  showed  mine  eye 

An  image  like  the  rainbow  fair  — 
The  wing  of  Change  hath  swept  it  by, 

And  left  the  storm-cloud  sleeping  there. 

But  yet  the  power  which  gave  me  birth 

In  grace  perhaps  this  rneed  hath  given ; 
Too  long  I  might  have  clung  to  earth, 

Perchance  have  thought  too  late  of  heaven  ; 
And  by  the  angel  earthward  sent, 

To  bid  me  .hence,  it  might  be  told 
He  found  my  spirit  well  content, 

Twining  a  daughter's  locks  of  gold. 

HUMMOCK,  Okee-fee-nokee  Swamp, 
Jan.  29<//,  1839. 


THE    CONSTANT   ONE. 

IT  was  the  soft  and  dreamy  hour 

When  hearts  replete  with  love's  excess 
Too  deeply  feel  its  dangerous  power, 

Nor  yet,  spell-bound,  would  wish  it  less. 
A  voice,  with  tones  to  music  dear, 

Sang  softly  mid  the  twilight  dim, 
While  one  stood  by,  the  words  to  hear, 

Which  tell-tale  Echo  stole  for  him. 

"  Oh,  bear  from  hence  my  shattered  lyre, 

I  cannot  wake  its  passion-tongue. 
The  hand  may  mend  a  broken  wire, 

But  who  shall  tune  a  heart  unstrung  ? 
The  lay  my  voice  was  tuned  to  sing 

One  heart  alone  can  draw  from  me  ; 
I  wind  a  wreath,  I  wear  a  ring, — 

But  not  for  thee,  no,  not  for  thee. 

"  My  lips  were  taught  in  days  of  yore 
A  simple  strain  they  thrilled  to  tell, 

Those  witching  words  they  breathe  no  more, 
But  who  shall  break  that  silent  spell  ? 

Love  launched  a  bark  of  fairy  form 
Upon  my  bosom's  restless*  sea, 


SONGS    OF  THE  BOWER.  169 

It  liveth  yet  amid  the  storm,  — 
But  not  for  thee,  no,  not  for  thee. 

"  I  know  that  eye  which  on  me  turns 

Is  fixed  beneath  a  wild'ring  spell, 
I  know  that  tongue  impassioned  burns 

To  word  a  thought  't  is  vain  to  tell  ; 
I  know  what  shadow  dims  thy  brow, 

And  yet,  and  yet  unkind  in  me, 
I  breathe  a  prayer,  I  lisp  a  vow, — 

Still  not  for  thee,  no,  not  for  thee." 

Died  down  the  sky  the  blush  of  day, 

As  soft  the  mournful  music  rang, 
While  Echo  still  was  heard  to  say 

The  sad'ning  words  the  siren  sang ; 
And  ever  thus  the  sounding  string 

Was  answered  by  the  tell-tale  lea, 
"  I  wind  a  wreath,  I  wear  a  ring,  — 

But  not  for  thee,  no,  not  for  thee." 


THE   LAST   LOOK. 

SUE  wept  beside  the  couch  of  him 

Who  won  her  bridal  vow, 
While  Death,  like  ray  of  starlight  dim, 

Slept  palely  on  his  brow. 
Unto  thy  side  once  more  I  come 

Bird-like  to  find  my  nest ; 
The  weary  turtle  seeks  the  home 

She  built  upon  thy  breast. 

I  cannot  bear  to  live  away 

From  that  dear  smile  of  light, 
Too  sadly  drags  the  long,  long  day, 

Too  lonesome  wears  the  night. 
How  shall  I  bide  the  world's  bleak  storm, 

When  its  tempest  shakes  my  heart? 
Ah  me,  give  back  these  kisses  warm  ; 

We  may  not  —  cannot  part ! 

But  hist !  what  freezing  thoughts  restrain 
The  words  I  fain  would  speak  ? 

I  dare  not  touch  thy  hand  again, 
I  dare  not  press  thy  cheek. 

Cold,  cold !  —  sweet  love,  is  this  the  spot 
Thou  gav'st  me  at  thy  side? 


SONGS   OF  THE  BOWER.  171 

Ah  no,  this  pulseless  breast  is  not 
The  pillow  of  thy  bride. 

And  yet  the  lip  of  softened  mould 

Seems  such  as  once  was  thine  ; 
Nay,  nay,  I  dream,  'tis  clammy  cold, 

And  answers  not  to  mine. 
It  breathes  no  word  of  soothing  tone, 

It  wears  no  smile  for  me,  — 
And  as  I  gaze,  I  feel  alone, 

I  feel  alone  with  thee. 

The  spirit  light,  whose  flame  divine 

Burns  not  by  human  will, 
Hath  vanished  from  its  earthly  shrine, 

And  left  the  temple  chill. 
While  shadowy  phantoms  from  above 

Sigh  on  the  darkened  air, 
"  Ye  look  not  on  the  form  ye  love,  — 

'T  is  Death  who  sleepeth  there." 


THE    MAIDEN'S    HEART. 

IF  you  should  twine  a  garland  green, 

A  wanton  hand  the  wreath  might  spoil ; 
If  you  should  paint  a  rosy  screen, 

A  careless  touch  the  leaf  might  soil ; 
From  the  rare  chain  which  Memory  keeps 

Some  cherished  link  may  still  be  lost ; 
And  yet  the  tear  which  Sorrow  weeps 

Be  bright,  with  grief  of  little  cost. 

If  you  should  roam  along  the  sand, 

Your  foot  may  break  a  crystal  rare  ; 
If  you  should  delve  in  treasure  land, 

Your  axe  may  crush  a  brilliant  fair : 
If  you  should  fill  a  goblet  bright, 

Some  slip  may  make  the  draught  in  vain ; 
And  yet  —  still  yet  —  'twere  matter  light, 

But  little  loss  or  little  gain. 

But  as  you  pass  life's  varied  streams, 

Should  you  observe,  with  eyes  that  rove, 
A  pearl  of  price  which  softly  gleams, 

Deep  fixed  in  woman's  breast  of  love, 
Oh,  by  the  words  of  mystic  art 

Which  o'er  the  lyre  imploring  ring, 
Guard  well  that  gem  —  't  is  maiden's  heart  — 

Nor  deem  the  toy  an  idle  thing. 


THE    SCARCE   FORGOTTEN. 

THEY  met  while  through  the  chamber 

Soft  floated  music  rare, 
The  self-same  charm  was  on  her  cheek 

As  oft  had  lingered  there ; 
Gladness  was  in  her  glances, 

Softness  was  in  her  tone, 
And  yet  her  image  from  his  breast 

With  all  its  joy  had  gone. 

Her  burning  glance  was  on  him, 

Yet  past  he  idly  by, 
The  rose-hue  changed  not  on  his  cheek 

Beneath  that  conscious  eye ; 
Still  an  early  dream  came  o'er  him, 

Of  mingled  love  and  pride  : 
He  saw  the  idol  of  his  youth, 

And  he  saw  another's  bride. 

The  whirling  dance  wove  mazes 
Wherein  her  feet  kept  time, 

Her  sailing  step  went  down  the  hall, 
To  the  sound  of  the  measured  chime  ; 

But  he  heeded  not  her  motion, 

And  he  never  praised  nor  blamed ;  — 


174  VOICES  OF  THE  BORDER. 

Pray  what  had  his  weak  words  to  do 
With  what  another  claimed  ? 

They  met  as  meets  the  stranger 

Without  a  smile  or  frown; 
Yet  dimly  shining  through  the  past 

Did  Memory's  star  look   down  ; 
While  softly  siren  fingers 

Touched  a  forgotten  string, 
As  striving  with  a  spectre  strain 

To  raise  a  vanished  thing. 

Love's  cloud  which  so  did  lower 

When  its  lightnings  pierced  his  breast, 
Like  wanton  waves  when  winds  go  down, 

Hath  gone  long  since  to  rest ; 
And  the  mystic  thought,  which  bound  him 

Strong  as  a  mortal  tie, 
Slow  fading  through   the   mist  of  years, 

At  length  hath  floated  by. 


STANZAS. 

I  SEE  thee  not,  I  hear  thee  not, 

I  stand  not  at  thy  side, 
I  miss  thy  presence  in  the  morn 

And  at  the  eventide. 
Til  boding  to  the  fortune  dark 

Which  prompts  me  still  to  rove  ; 
I  see  thee  not,  I  hear   thee  not, — 

Where  art  thou,  0  my  love  ? 

The  word  to  me  seemed  very  dear 

Which  bound  thee  to  my  heart, 
But  ah  !    it  proved  a  mocking  sound,  — 

We  only  met  to  part. 
Some  lip  it  was  of  evil  charm 

Which  blessed  and  called  us  one  ; 
I  see  thee  not,  I  hear  thee  not,  — 

Sweet  love,  where  art  thou  gone? 

Though   pleasant,  in  the  sunset  glow, 

To  sit  mid  rustling  limes, 
I  languish  for  the  sky  of  snow, 

And  star  of  other  climes  ; 
Through  orange  groves  the  wind  is  sweet. 

And  soft  the  southern  air, 


176  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

But  when  the  northern  storm-clouds  meet, 
My  wandering  thoughts  are  there. 

It  often  seemeth  to  mine  eye 

My  lot  is  rudely  cast, 
Too  few  my  glimpses  of  the  sky, 

Too  many  of  the  blast ; 
It  may  not  be,  —  I  only  know, 

However  vain  to  tell, 
I  see  thee  not,  I  hear  thee  not, — 

Loved  one  and  lost,  farewell! 

FLORID  A,  1837. 


THE   LONELY    GRAVE. 

SHE    resteth  where  the  flashing  stream 

Flits  fast  along  the  shore, 
But  in  that  sleep  without  a  dream 

She  heareth  not  its  roar ; 
Above  her  grave  wild  roses  bloom, 

In  summer's  gentle  hours, 
But  not  a  hand  is  near  that  tomb, 

To  train  its  drooping  flowers. 

Lone,  watching  by  her  silent  bed, 

The  squirrel  oft  is   §een ; 
Wild  ivy,  too,  grows  o'er  her  head, 

And  moss  and  myrtles  green; 
And  in  the  night  the  wind's  deep  sigh 

Is  heard  along  the  air, 
As  if  in  faint  inquiry  why 

So  still  she  slumbereth   there. 

With  threads  of  lint  a  plaintive  bird 
Hath    braided  there  its  nest, 

While  all  day  long  its  voice  is  heard 
Above  her  pulseless  breast, 

Until  pale  eve,  at  close  of  day, 
In  sadness  and  alone, 

12 


178  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

Draws  near  to  gild  with  pensive  ray 
That  grave  without  a  stone. 

It  was  a  gentle  girl,  they  said, 

Whose  lover  broke  her  heart, 
And  at  her  own  request  was  laid 

Far  from  her  friends  apart. 
She  gave  him  all  her  maiden  store, 

To  light  his  bosom  dim, 
And  when,  alas !  she  had  no   more, 

She  could  but  die  for  him. 


FOREVER  THINE. 

FOREVER  thine  !  though  land  and  sea  divide  us, 

Forever  thine ; 

Though  burning  wastes  and  winds  —  whate'er  be 
tide  us, 

Forever  thine ; 
Mid  dazzling  tapers  in  the  marble  alley, 

Forever  thine ; 
Beneath  the  evening  moon  in  pastoral  valley, 

Forever  thine ; 
And  when  the  feeble  lamp  of  life,  expiring, 

Ceases  to  shine, 
My  soul  will  echo  —  echo,  still  retiring, 

Forever  thine  I 


SHE   LOVES  ANOTHER. 

SHE  loves  another !  —  I  have  learned 

The  lore  of  womankind; 
The  hope  which  in  my  bosom  burned 

Was  idle  as  the  wind  ; 
I  would  not  see  her  Parian  brow, 

Her  name  I  would  not  hear, 
The  lips  which  breathed  a  hollow  vow  — 

How  can  I  hold  them  dear? 

She  loves  another  !  —  had   I  deemed 
Aught  could  ensue  like  this, 

O  * 

When  first  with  trusting  faith  I  dreamed 
How  she  was  framed  for  bliss, 

I  might  have  quenched  the  inward  glow 
Which  thrills  my  bosom  yet, 

Nor  rashly  taught  this  heart  to  know 
What  it  would  fain  forget. 

She  loves  another  !  —  he  is  dear 

Whose  name  she  shunned  to  speak  ; 
His  faltering  tones  are  in  her  ear, 

His  kiss  is  on  her  cheek.  , 

'T  is  well,  't  is  right.  —  serene  and  bright 

Their  future  hours  may  be, 
But  joy,  methinks,  should  first  unite 

Faith  and  Inconstancy. 
FORT  MELLON,  Florida. 


STANZAS. 

IT  is  the  hour  of  mirth  and  wine, 

Deep  sleeps  the  field,  the  watch  is  set ; 

Since  thou  hast  taught  me  to  repine, 
Oh  Fortune,  teach  me  to  forget ! 

*  O 

What  boots  it  for  this  wandering  eye 
To  roam  where  recollection  lives? 

Oh,  drain  the  stream  of  Lethe  dry, 

Or  cure  the  wound  which  Memory  gives ! 

I  had  a  hope  which  came  and  past ; 

I  had  a  dream,  —  that,  too,  is  o'er ; 
The  bark  in  which  I  braved  the  blast 

Struck  rudely  on  a  surf-beat  shore; 
Forgetful  of  the  tempest's  shock, 

It  sought  the  sea  on  breezes  fair ; 
I  stand  alone  upon  the  rock, 

Gazing  upon  the  shipwreck  there. 

In  slumber's  hour  —  while  yet  a  boy  — 
Oft  to  my  couch  a  Spirit  came, 

And  there  it  sang  with  notes  of  joy, 
Like  Rapture  o'er  a  wind-harp's  frame  ; 

And  it  was  then  my  heart's  belief 

Some  siren  sweet  from  heaven  was  there, 


182  VOICES   OF   THE   BORDER. 

But   now  I  think  't  was  shadowy  Grief, 

Who  wore  the  garb  which  Joy  should  wear. 

And  once  a  star  —  a  single  star, 

One  of  a  group  and  one  of  three  — 
Seemed,  as  I  watched  its  light  afar, 

To  live  for  me,  and  only  me  ; 
I  do  not  know  the  mystic  power 

Which  bade  me  think  it  so  should  shine ; 
But  hours  like  this  —  the  midnight  hour  — 

Its  eye  seemed  ever  turned  to  mine. 

And  oft  I  thought,  in  Fancy's  dream, 

It  looked  so  pure,  it  shone  so  fair 
While  gazing  on  its  liquid  gleam, 

An  angel's  face  was  buried  there  ; 
Since  years  are  mine  and  wisdom's  lot, 

I  know  how  wild  such  fancies  were, 
Yet  little  boast  to  know  I  'm  not 

The  object  of  an  angel's  care. 


STANZAS  TO  MARY* 

I  KNOW  a  change  is  on  thy  cheek. 

Although   I  see  it  cot, 
And  that  the  home  thy  longings    seek 

Is  now  a  distant   spot ; 
I  know  my  lyre  of  murmurs  deep 

For  thee   hath  shadows  dim, 
And  thou  wilt  turn  aside  to  weep, 

To  weep,  alas !  for  him. 

But  thou  art  learned  in  music's  art 

And  measured  numbers  well, 
And  know'st  the  voice  which  pains  the  heart 

Still  soothes  it  with  its  spell ; 
So  sad  and  soft  with  chosen  word 

I  wake  my  dreary  strain, 
And  gently  touch  the  mournful  chord, 

To  chant  thy  lover  slain. 

No  muffled  drum  with  note  of  woe 

Proclaimed  when  he  was  dead, 
No  funeral  flag  with  solemn  show, 

Half-mast,  the  tidings  sped, 

*  Written  for  Mrs.  Col.  Thompson,  whose  husband  was  killed  at 
the  battle  of  the  Okeechubbe,  Fla.,  December  25,  1837. 


184  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

But  fierce  and  far,  from  bank  to  bank, 

Broke  forth  a  savage  yell, 
And  the  soldier  in  the  rearmost  rank 

Knew  that  a  warrior  fell. 

Oh,  't  is  a  mournful  thing  to  be 

Amid  the  battle  blast, 
And  o'er  a  brow  we  love,  to  see 

The  death-tint  stealing  fast ! 
To  view  the  all-unconscious  glance 

Fixed  in  a  vacant  stare, 
And   yet  the  banner  on  the  lance, 

And  the  trumpet  on   the  air  ! 

Thou  wert  not  there  to  see  him  die 

Upon  the  warring  heath ; 
Thou  wert  not  there  to  close  his  eye 

And  watch  his  parting  breath,  — 
To  feel  his  fingers'  quivering  touch, 

His  last,  last  look  to  see ; 
And  he  whom  thou  clid'st  love  so  much 

Was  buried  far  from  thee. 

In  vain  his  lip  of  anxious  care 

Soft  murmured  "  Mary,  come ;  " 
Thou  did'st  not  hear  that  lowly  prayer 

The  exile  breathed  for  home  ; 
And  when  upon  the  crimson  sand, 
*  Mid  shout  and  thunder  peal, 
He  stretched  for  thee  his  dying  hand, 
It  grasped  a  thing  of  steel. 


SONGS   OF   THE  BOWER.  185 

Oh,  in  the  hour  Death's   angel  came 

Life's  loosened  chord  to  break, 
Upon  thy  bosom's  conscious  frame 

Did  not  a  heart-string  shake  ? 

O 

How  could  his  spirit  leave  its  goal 

Upon  that  fearful  day, 
And  thine  not  feel  the   pang  which    stole 

Thy  more  than  life  away  ? 

Thy  heart  is  now  a  desert  spot, 
Where  joy  hath  ceased  to  bloom, 

Yet  thine  the  hope  which  sleepeth  not, 
But  shines  beyond  the  tomb ; 

Though  burst  the  coil  of  mortal  birth, 

O  * 

Tis  not  forever  riven, 
The  spirit  which  so  loved  on  earth 
Yet  lives  and  loves  in  heaven. 


DEATH   OF   THE   IMPROVISATRICE. 

TRIBUTE    TO    "  L.  E.  L." 

"  She  died 

Like  a  pale  flower  nipt  in  its  sweet  spring-tide, 
Ere  it  had  bloomed." 

ELLEN  ARTORE'S  EPITAPH,  written  by  herstlf. 

I. 

SING,  minstrel,  sing  the  bier 
Where  rayless  she  doth  lie, 
Like  morn's  bright  dewy  tear, 
Crushed  by  rude  footsteps  ere 
The  sun  is  high. 

ii. 

Lift  up  the  jealous  veil 
Which  so  doth  interpose 
To  hide  the  finger  pale 
That  smote  (oh,  sound  of  wail !) 
Love's  bosom  rose. 

in. 

Let  music's  deepest  swell 
Echo  the  chord  along, 
While  sad  its  murmurs  tell, 
How  faded  and  how  fell 

That  flower  of  sonsj. 


SONGS   OF   THE  BOWER.  137 

IV. 

Sing,  minstrel,  pour  thy  lay ! 
The  lyre's  best  string  is  mute ; 
Chant   the  young  Queen  of  May, 
Whose  hand  forgets  to  stray 
Along  the  lute. 

v. 

Sing  to  the  breezes  how, 
Caressing  and  caressed, 
Like  stream  from  mountain  brow 
To  placid   lake   below, 

She  sank  to  rest. 


VI. 

And  the  deep-voiced  minstrel  spoke ! 
She  has  left  her  spirit  height, 
Like  tree  'neath  woodman's  stroke, 
Like  bird  with  pinion  broke, 

In  midway  flight. 

VII. 

She  hath  faded  down  the  sky, 
Singing  such  melting  tone, 
That  the  wild  lark  hovering  high, 
To  catch  that  melody, 

Forebore  its  own. 

VIII. 

Too  cold  the  world's  bleak  shower 
Upon  her  cheek  of  pearl, 


188  VOICES   OF   THE  BORDER. 

And  like  the  passion-flower, 
Chilled  in  ungenial  bower, 

So  drooped  the  girl. 

IX. 

Death  saw,  and  loved  the  maid  — 
Oh,  gem  for  dark  decay!  — 
And  with  a  kiss  of  shade, 
All  Judas-like,  betrayed 

The  prize  away. 

x. 

Along  the  silent  stair, 
So  stealthy  was  his  tread, 
That  the   watchers,  worn  with  care, 
Dreamed  not  of  robber  there, 
Till  he  had  fled. 

XI. 

And  the  watch-lamp,  flick'ring  dim, 
Cast  o'er  the  mould  he  left 
Shadows  with  mantles  grim  — 
Phantoms  in  league  with  him  — 
To  hide  the  theft. 

XII. 

But  when  the  garish  day 
Shone  out  from  orb  divine, 
They  read,  by  the  tell-tale  ray 
Which  bathed  that  cheek  of  clay, 
The  Spoiler's  sign. 


SONGS   OF  THE   BOWER.  189 

XIII. 

They  knew  that  she  had  died, 
That  the  archer's  claim  was  paid, 
Yet  one  who  stood  beside 
That  remnant  of  a  bride, 

Almost  had  said, 

XIV. 

"  How  beautifully  deep 
In  love's  fond  trance  she  lies  ! 
It  is  a  sin  to  weep, 
So  gently  closes   sleep 

Her  soft-sealed  eyes  !  " 


THE    CLOUD   AND    STREAM. 

THERE  was  a  cloud  at  even 

So  spiritually  fair, 
Methought  some  creatures  of  the  sky 

Had  raised  their  mansion  there  ; 
And  when  its  fleecy  bosom 

Gleamed  in  the  hallowed  light, 
They  said  it  was  an  angel's  wing 

That  made  its  hues  so  bright. 

O 

There  flowed  a  stream  of  summer 

So  lovely  from  its  spring, 
The  merest  waif  upon  its  breast 

Became  an  envied  thing ; 
And  in  the  starry  midnight 

So  gleamed  its  mirror  tide, 
The  very  sea-nymphs  left  their  caves 

To  revel  at  its  side. 

But  ah,  soon  failed  the  sunlight, 

Failed  too  the  fountain's  head  ; 
That  cloud  became  an  Ethiop  spot, 

A  waste  that  river-bed. 
Hope  of  the  youthful  bosom, 

Boyhood's  aspiring  dream, 
How  like  are  ye,  in  Reason's  eye, 

Unto  that  cloud  and  stream  ! 

FORT  GILMER.   Florida. 


COME   WHERE   THE    BILLOW   HEAVES. 

COME  where  the  billow  heaves,  love, 

Along  the  silver  grain  ! 
Moonlight  is  on  the  leaves,  love, 

And  the  zephyr  fans  the  plain  ; 
Morn  with  its  garish  light,  love, 

May  shine  for  colder  bowers, 
But  the  soft  and  gentle  night,  love, 

Was  made  for  climes  like  ours. 

Come  where  the  clasping  vine,  love, 

Was  trained  to  shade  thy  brow, 
That  not  a  lip  save  mine,  love, 

Should  marvel  at  its  snow ; 
An  evergreen  its  name,  love, 

To  typify  thy  youth ; 
'T  is  fragile  like  thy  frame,  love, 

But  constant  like  thy  truth. 

In  days  of  old,  verse  tells,  love, 

With  charms  how  music  wrought ; 
But  woman  knows  of  spells,  love, 

Which  music  never  taught. 
Come  to  the  moonlight  plain,  love, 

Out  in  the  perfumed  air, 
Hearts  have  a  mystic  chain,  love, 

Which  bind  them  closer  there. 

NEW   ORLEANS,  May  20,  1840. 


SONG. 

To  wake  her  lute,  which  long  had  slept, 

She  held  it  in  the  breath  of  Spring, 
But  when  the  breezes  o'er  it  swept, 

A  wanton  zephyr  broke  the  string. 
And  as  its  shriek  died  on  the  ear, 

(That  chord's  wild  shriek  when  snapped  in  twain,) 
With  measured  sounds  't  was  grief  to  hear, 

The  musing  maid  prolonged  the  strain, — 
"  Oh  thus,  't  is  thus  with  her  who  spreads 

Her  bosom  chords  for  Love  to  ring ; 
His  breath  inconstant  breaks  the  threads, 

And  leaves  the  heart  a  tuneless  thing." 

She  bore  a  floweret  from  the  shade, 

And  raised  it  to  the  beams  of  day, 
But  while  the  light  around  it  played, 

It  withered  'neath  the  burning  ray  ; 
And  as  she  marked  each  fragrant   leaf 

Fast  shrinking  in  the  noon-day  glare, 
Again  those  mellowed  tones  of  grief 

Stole  soft  along  the  scented  air, — 
"  Oh  thus,  't  is  thus  with  her,  unwise, 

Who  courts  the  sun  of  Passion's  eye, 
Mid  lights  that  seemed  of  heavenly  rise 

The  startled  dreamer  wakes  —  to  die." 


COME   THOU  AT  NIGHT. 

COME   thou   at   night,  when   soft  through  shadows 
gleaming, 

The  fire-fly's  lamp  flits  o'er  the  dusky  lea, 
Such  is  the  light,  oh  thou  of  gentle  dreaming, 

'Neath  which  to  linger  at  the  try  sting-tree. 

Chorus. 
Yes,  come  at  night,  for  then,  't  is  then,  believe,  love, 

I  wait  thy  step,  the  sleeping  flowers  among ; 
The  shadowy  night,  't  will  not,  't  will  not  deceive, 

love, 
It  is  the  morn  which  hath  a  tell-tale  tongue. 

At  break  of  morn  Aurora  will  be  peeping 
About  thy  lattice  with  her  curious  ray; 

Ah,  never  trust  a  secret  to  her  keeping, 
She  only  shines  Love's  blushes  to  betray. 

Chorus. 
But  come  at  night,  for  then,  't  is  then,  believe,  love, 

I  wait  thy  step,  the  sleeping  flowers  among ; 
The  shadowy  night,  't  will  not,  't  will  not  deceive, 

love, 
It  is  the  morn  which  hath  a  tell-tale  tongue. 

13 


THE  MANIAC'S  VISION. 

THEY  say  I  'm  mad,  because  I  try 

With  shouts  to  calm  my  brain  ; 
And  when  I  dance —  I  know  not  why  - 

They  bind  me  with  a  chain. 
Avaunt !  halloo  !  — - 1  will  be  gay  ! 

Grief  counts  but  little  worth  ; 
Since  I  have  wept  my  tears  away, 

What  have  I  left  but  mirth  ? 

Bring  me  companions  !  am  I  mad  ? 

No  wonder  I  should  rave  — 
They  took  the  only  one  T  had, 

And  hid  her  in  a  grave ; 
And  I  'm  kept  here  —  a  merry  thing  — 

Wherefore  full  well  I  know ; 
Ha !  ha !  because  I  laugh  and  sing, 

They  will  not  let  me  go. 

I  saw  the  moon  come  down  last  night 

O 

And  dance  upon  the  sea  ; 
Go,  catch  her  ere  she  takes  to  flight 

And  bar  her  up  with  me. 
The  sun,  they  say,  at  rise  of  day, 

Did  what  he  should  not  do  ; 


SONGS  OF  THE  BOWER.  195 

He  smiled,  and  made  the  hills  look  gay, 
And  should  be  prisoned  too. 

And  yonder  star  is  quite  as  bad, — 

Run,  seize  it  ere  it  fly  ; 
We  '11  dance  together  —  all  are  mad  — 

Sun,  moon,  and  star,  and  I! 
Look  !  ho  !  aside  my  fetters  cast ! 

That  image,  —  loose  my  chain  ! 
'T  is  she  —  she 's  there  —  help  !  hold  her  fast ! 

Ha !  ha  !  she  's  mine  again. 
FORT  MILLER,  California. 


OH,  BLAME   HER  NOT. 

OH,  blame  her  not  that  she  hath  erred, 

Love  made  her  vision  dim, 
See  how  the  fount  of  tears  is  stirred  ! 

She  weeps  —  and  weeps  for  him. 
The  heart,  once  Nature's  garden  wild, 

Is  now  a  desert  spot, 
Have  pity  on  misfortune's  child ! 

Kind  lady,  blame  her  not. 

Oh,  blame  her  not,  —  't  is  more  than  shame 

Love's  robes  to  thus  unfold, 
Where  hearts  are  made  of  lava  flaine, 

Who  could  expect  them  cold? 
For  her  there  is  no  kindred  breath, 

Oh,  be  her  guile  forgot ! 
Her  earthly  doom  is  more  than  death,  — 

Dear  lady,  blame  her  not. 

Oh,  blame  her  not,  —  despite  the  din 

Prude  voices  help  to  swell, 
Her  deepest  fault,  her  darkest  sin 

Was  that  she  loved  too  well. 
Devotion  was  her  grand  complaint, 

Desertion  is  her  lot ; 
Her  soul  is  sick,  her  heart  is  faint,  — 

Sweet  lady,  blame  her  not. 


SONNET   TO  THE   OCEAN. 

DARK  dashing  Ocean  with  thy  crest  of  foam, 

Forever  changing,  and  yet  still  the  same, 
How  many  wanderers  o'er  thy  billows  roam 

To  seek  for  fortune  or  in  quest  of  fame  ! 
The  widowed  wife  hath  cursed  thee  —  as  she  pressed 

The  lips  that  ne'er  may  breathe  a  father's  name  ; 
And  the  fair  bride,  with  tears  and  throbbing  breast, 

Hath  gazed  upon  thee  from  her  silent  home, 
In  mute  despair,  that  thou  should'st  prove  to  be 

The  grave  of  all  she  loved  on  earth  the  best. 
Roll  on,  heave  up  thy  waves  in  inward  strife, 

Thou  ever  restless,  ever  sounding  sea ! 
By  yonder  moon  thou  seemest  bright — like  life  — 

But  thou  art  fraught  —  like  life  —  with  treachery. 


CHERISHED  TOKENS. 

I  HAVE  a  bird,  a  lovely  bird, 

With  saffron-colored  wings, 
And  when  the  blessed  morning  breaks 

Ah  me,  how  sweet  he  sings ! 

*  O 

He  perches  on  the  window  where  ' 

It  looks  upon  the  sea, 
And  oh !  his  every  note  is  soft 

As  melody  can  be. 

I  have  a  tree,  a  scented  tree, 

Brought  from  far  Southern  bowers, 
And  every  month  it  bears  for  me 

A  coronal  of  flowers. 
Though  fragile  be  that  wreath  it  weaves, 

And  soon  its  verdure  past, 
'Tis  sweet  to  watch  the  opening  leaves, 

And  love  them  while  they  last. 

I  have  a  lute,  a  deep-toned  lute, 

With  chords  of  rarest  thrill, 
And  when  at  night  the  birds  are  mute, 

And  winds  and  waves  are  still, 
(Sometimes  even  by  daylight's  hour,) 

It  sings  or  seems  to  sing 


SONGS  OF   THE  BOWER.  199 

Such  wild  sad  strains,  I  've  almost  thought 
An  angel  touched  its  string. 

I  have  a  braid,  a  silken  braid 

Of  softest  flaxen  hair, 
With  clasp,  which  part  of  gold  is  made, 

And  part  a  jewel  rare  ; 
They  say  the  gold  is  thrice  refined, 

And  costlier  far  the  gem, 
And  yet  the  simple  lock  they  bind, 

I  value  more  than  them. 

And  I  have,  ah  me,  how  little  prized 

Of  all  my  cherished  things  ! 
Hid  in  my  bosom's  deepest  nook 

A  heart  of  passion's  strings. 
I  have,  no,  no!  I  have  it  not  — 

It  once  was  in  that  cell  — 
But  now  I  fear  't  is  flown  away,  — 

Whither  I  may  not  tell. 


CHIDE  MILDLY  THE   ERRING. 

CHIDE  mildly  the  erring, 

Kind  language  endears, 
Grief  follows  the  sinful, 

Add  not  to  their  tears. 
Avoid  with  reproval 

Fresh  pain  to  bestow, 
The  heart  that  is  stricken 

Needs  never  a  blow. 

Chide  mildly  the  erring, 

Blame  gently  their  fall, 
If  strength  were  but  human, 

How  weakly  were  all ! 
What  marvel  the  pilgrim 

Should  wander  astray, 
When  tempests  so  shadow 

Life's  wearisome  way  ! 

Chide  mildly  the  erring, 

Rebuke  them  with  care  ; 
Compared  with  the  Perfect, 

The  best  might  despair. 
We  all  have  some  failing, 

We  all  are  unwise, 
And  the  light  which  redeems  us 

Must  shine  from  the  skies. 


THE  COTTAGE  GIRL. 

A  VOICE  from  the  chamber  rang  soft  through  the 

room : 

"  Sweet  mother,  relieve  me  from  working  the  loom, 
And  up  to  the  hill-side  permit  me  to  stray, 
I  'm  weary  with  throwing  the  shuttle  to-day. 
There  's  a  sound   that  I  hear   like   the  voice  of  a 

dream, 

Which  is  sweet  to  my  heart  as  I  muse  by  the  stream, 
For  something  of  late  hath  come  over  my  breast, 
That  I  love  to  look  out  on  the  clouds  of  the  west ; 
The  evening  is  mild  and  the  sunset  is  fair, 
And  the  bird,  and  the  bee,  and  the  Stranger  are 

there." 

A  voice  from  the  dairy  continued  the  chime  : 
"  Sweet  mother,  all  day  have  I  sorted  the  thyme, 
My  bosom  is  sick  at  the  sound  of  the  churn, 
I  cannot  remain  for  the  curdle  to  turn. 
The  dew-drops  of  labor  stand  moist  on  my  brow, 
The  task  was  so  wearisome  milking  the  cow ; 
But  fresh  on  the  hill-side  the  apricot-tree, 
And  the  rosy  red  currants  are  smiling  for  me, 


202  VOICES   OF   THE  BORDER. 

While  soft  from  the  boughs  hangs  the  mellow  ripe 

pear, 
And  the  peach,  and  the  plum,  and  the  Stranger  are 

there." 

I  stood  by  the  porch  of  the  artless  and  poor ; 
But  the  sound  of  the  shuttle   came   not  from  the 

door, 

And  hard  by  the  threshold  with  moss  overgrown 
The  herd  unattended  were  feeding  alone, 
While  a  robin  sang  soft  by  the  curb  of  the  well, 
Some  tale,  could  it  speak,  as  if  anxious  to  tell. 
And  who  was  the  mortal  and  where  was  he  born 
Who  drew  from  the  cottage  the  maid  to  the  lawn  ? 
Oh,  ask  me  no  further !   but  mothers  take  care 
Of  your  blushing   sixteen  —  should   the   Stranger 

come  there. 

HUMMOCK,  Okee-fee-nokee  Swamp,  Fla. 


THE   DEATH  OF  MARY. 

IT  is  the  hour  thy  evening  hymn 

Was  wont  to  soothe  mine  ear, 
And  silent  in  thy  chamber  dim 

I  stand  beside  thy  bier. 
I  gaze  at  yonder  vacant  chair, 

Then  shuddering  turn  to  thee  ; 
Thou  answer'st  not  my  earnest  stare, — 

Dear  Mary,  speak  to  me. 

Ye  placid  lips  give  back  your  breath, 

Your  smile  still  lingers  here  ; 
And  thou,  fair  cheek,  who  says  't  is  death 

Maketh  its  hues  so  clear? 
Thou  art  not  dead  —  too  rich  the  flush 

Along  that  purple  vein  — 
'Tis  roseate  sleep  which  bids  such  blush, 

And  thou  wilt  smile  again. 

Avaunt !  ye  phantoms  of  the  cloud 
Which  mock  me  for  your  mirth ! 

Avaunt,  away,  the  winding  shroud 
Was  made  for  things  of  earth  ; 

But  thou  did'st  not  to  earth  belong, 
Thy  mansion  was  above  ; 


204  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

Thou  wert  the  Spirit  of  a  song, 
Whose  every  note  was  love. 

Beneath  those  orbs  where  seeming  hid, 

The  soul's  bright  flashes  lie, 
Still  burns  the  lightning  of  the  lid,  — 

No,  no,  thou  could'st  not  die  ! 
Yet  something,  as  I  fix  my  gaze 

On  those  sealed  orbs  of  sleep, 
Strangely  upon  my  bosom  weighs, 

Prompting  the  wish  to  weep. 

And  one  by  one,  as  slowly  start 

The  herald  drops  of  pain, 
Something  soft  murmurs  to  my  heart, 

That  I  have  loved  in  vain  ; 
That  I  must  live  without  a  ray 

On  life's  tempestuous  sea, 
To  light  the  hope  which  pale  decay 

Oh  Mary,  quenched  with  thee. 

FORT  GILMER,  January  22J,  1839. 


UNREQUITED   LOVE. 

THERE  is  a  grief  which  all  have  known 

Who  ever  mourned  a  friendship  flown, 

And  few  but  what  have  shed  the  tear 

Bewailing  loss  of  token   dear. 

But  ah  !  that  grief  is  little  cost 

For  friendship  dead  or  token  lost, 

To  hers  whose  lot  it  is  to  prove 

The  pang  of  unrequited  love. 

When  after  all  that  woman's  art 

Can  do  to  curb  that  rebel  heart, 

The  mask  of  smiles  put  on  to  veil 

Her  feelings  as  her  cheek  grows  pale, 

The  courteous  nod,  the  careless  tone 

Which  seems  to  say  she  cares  for  none, 

With  every  plea  of  maiden  pride, 

At  length  exhausted  or  defied, 

She  feels  't  is  idle  to  restrain 

The  throb  which  tells  she  loves  in  vain. 


THE   RETORT. 

"  SUSIE,   playful  child  of  Nature, 

Ever  romping  round  the  school, 
How  to  kiss,  you  crazy  creature, 

Can't  you  teach  me,  think,  the  rule  ? " 

"  Knowledge  comes  by  pain  and  peril ! 

Ain't  it  fun  to  teach  a  fool  ? " 
O'er  my  lips  she  plied  her  ferule,  — 
" Learn,"  said  she,  "  to  kiss  by  rule" * 

*  An  un-rulv  retort. 


SERENADE. 

WAKE,  lady,  wake !  that  gentle  eye 

The  voice  of  music  bids  unclose ; 
We  stand  beneath  thy  lattice  high, 

To  -woo  thee  from  thy  soft  repose ; 
The  spell  of  sleep  is  scarce  so  strong, 

But  wizard  words  the  charm  may  break ; 
By  the  deep  power  of  mighty  song, 

We  bid  thee,  wake !   fair  lady,  wake ! 

Wake,  lady,  wake  !  upon  the  lea 

The  stars  look  down  serenely  bright1; 
The  moon  hath  fled  beyond  the  sea, 

That  thou  may'st  reign  the  queen  of  night ; 
Arouse  !  no  cloud  obscures  the  skies, 

No  ripple  stirs  the  tranquil  lake, 
Lift  the  fair  lid  which  veils  those  eyes, 

Fair  lady,  wake  !   sweet  lady,  wake  ! 


FIRST  LOVE. 

THOUGH  bards  may  sing  —  for  love's  regrets 

There  is  a  stream  oblivious  flows, 
Think  not  that  woman's  heart  forgets 

The  boon  of  faith  it  first  bestows. 
When  pining  o'er  the  leafless  void 

Which  life's  romance  hath  failed  to  fill, 
Regretting  moments  unemployed, 

She  sighs  for  something  dearer  still ; 

If  on  the  wing  of  thoughts  that  rove 

From  soul  to  soul,  from  breast  to  breast, 
She  find  at  length  —  that  wandering  dove  — 

o  o 

A  spot  on  which  her  heart  may  rest, 
Say  not,  when  passion's  flood  subsides, 

And  life  becomes  a  gentle  stream, 
She  e'er  forgets,  along  its  tides, 

The  olive  of  that  early  dream. 

Though  time  and  distance  both  should  try 

To  wring  that  vision  from  the  past, 
They  cannot  break  the  secret  tie 

Which  holds,  spell-bound,  its  memory  fast. 
No,  no,  the  God  she  thought  divine 

May  prove  a  shape  of  earthly  care, 
The  light  may  vanish  from  the  shrine  — 

But  still  the  pilgrim  worships  there. 


HYMN   FOR   LILLA. 

THERE  is  an  angel  in  my  way 

You  cannot  see. 
So  potent  is  her  mystic  sway, 
That  like  a  star  of  restless  ray, 
She  haunts  my  path  by  night  and  day 

Where'er  I  be. 

If  she  were  woman  I  had  known 

Her  human  birth ; 
Her  look,  her  smile,  her  air  alone, 
The  mortal's  nature  would  have  shown, 
But  there  is  something  in  her  tone, 

Oh !  not  of  earth. 

Fair,  radiant  image  !  tell  me  why 

Thou  roamest  here, 

Mid  hearts  that  change  and  hopes  that  die ! 
Are  there  no  denizens  of  sky 
To  worry  with  that  troublous  eye  ?  — 

Back  to  thy  sphere! 

14 


"THE   WREATH   YOU  TWINED." 

THE  wreath  you  twined  at  morn  for  me 

Faded  before  the  eve  grew  dim ; 
The  harp  you  hung  in  yonder  tree 

Forgot  as  soon  its  wild-wood  hymn  ; 
To-morrow's  sun,  though  bright  he  shine, 

Bloom  to  that  wreath  will  not  restore  ; 
The  breeze  around  that  harp  may  pine, 

But  ah !  its  strings  will  sound  no  more. 

There  was  a  time,  in  passion's  bower, 

When,  mid  our  dream  of  soft  unrest, 
To  thee  and  me  (oh,  angel  hour !) 

Came  the  fond  thought  —  how  both  were  blest. 
Deceitful  dream  !  when  hope  was  high, 

And  eyes  gazed  out  on  starlight  bright, 
That  strewed  with  clouds  love's  summer  sky, 

And  veiled  the  heart  in  robes  of  night ! 

Oh  !  empty  worship  —  such  as  mine  — 

To  sanctify  a  thing  of  earth. 
To  kneel  before  a  human  shrine, 

And  find  the  idol  little  worth  ! 
Fruit  —  rich,  ripe  fruit,  whose  juice  to  sip 

One  would  forego  his  heavenly  share  — 
To  press  the  apple  to  the  lip, 

And  have  it  turn  to  ashes  there  ! 


LIFE   DREAMS. 

ALL  my  life  has  been  a  dream, 
Changeful  as  a  moonlight  gleam  ; 
Now  a  shadow  —  now  a  beam 

O'er  a  desert  cast ; 
Every  color  of  the  sky, 
From  the  rainbow's  deepest  dye 
To  the  azure  of  an  eye 

Whose  dear  light  is  past. 

Softly  rising  from  afar, 

Broad  it  shone,  a  dazzling  star, 

Till  at  length  it  grew  a  bar 

'Twixt  myself  and  Heaven  ; 
But  the  influence  is  gone, 
And  the  shrine  is  left  alone  ; 
,,  What  its  worshipers  have  done, 
Let  it  be  forgiven. 

Ever  on  my  wandering  way, 
As  from  clouds  at  close  of  day, 
Glides  the  pleasing  sunset  ray, 

So  my  visions  fade  ; 
Still  dissolving  with  the  hour, 
Whether  wreath  from  ivy  bower, 


212        VOICES  OF  THE  BORDER. 

Whether  crown  from  throne  of  power, 
Or  from  sylvan  maid. 

Thankless  work,  this  task  of  mine, 
Lengthening  still  this  silvery  line, 
When  the  fragile  wire  I  twine 

Breaks  at  every  turn  ! 
Hapless  bard,  forbear  thy  strain  ! 
Cast  aside  Love's  shattered  chain  ! 
Thou  may'st  fan  Hope's  fire  again  — 

But  no  more  't  will  burn. 


MEASURE   FOR  MUSIC. 

WRITTEN     IN  ANSWER  TO   THE  POPULAR  LITTLE   MELODY  EN 
TITLED   "  CALL  ME  PET   NAMES,   DEAR." 

YES  !  I  '11  call  thee  pet  names,  dear, 

Mine  only  —  my  own, 
My  bud  and  my  blossom, 

My  kingdom  —  my  throne. 
I  '11  style  thee  a  queen,  dear, 

A  goddess  divine, 
Whose  heart  is  my  temple, 

Whose  brow  is  my  shrine. 

Yes !  I  '11  give  thee  pet  names,  dear, 

My  darling  —  my  dove, 
My  joy  and  my  jewel, 

My  life  and  my  love. 
I  '11  seek  for  pet  names,  dear, 

'T  is  sweetest  to  call, 
My  bird  and  my  bright  one, 

My  angel  —  my  all. 


LOVE  AND  THE   LILY. 

As  Love  one  day  was  out  at  play, 

He  met  a  blooming  Lily, 
And  on  its  bosom  asked  to  lay 

His  cheek  —  it  was  so  chilly. 

"  Go  to,"  the  wary  Lily  said, 

"  I  lack  not  for  politeness ; 
But  on  my  word,  Love,  I'm  afraid 

Your  cheek  may  soil  my  whiteness." 

"  Nay,  nay,  not  so,"  Love  soft  replied, 
"  You  only  talk  for  teazing ; 

'T  is  summer  sunlight  at  your  side, 
Else,  everywhere,  't  is  freezing." 

Believing  not  Love's  seeming  toil 

Was  half  he  represented, 
The  pitying  Lily  all  the  while 

Refusing,  still  consented. 

But  when  the  morn  with  dewy  tread 
Came  round  to  wake  the  flowers, 

Alas!  the  Lily's  drooping  head 
Rose  not  to  greet  the  hours. 


SOXGS    OF   THE   BOWEU.  21") 

And  though  the  bees  around  its  cup 

At  noon  as  usual  dallied, 
Oh,  never  more  were  lifted  up 

The  leaves  which  Love  had  sullied. 


LINES   TO   E— 


LOVE  thee  ?  from  the  first  moment  when 

Thy  fairy  image  blessed  my  sight, 
On  thee  each  thought  by  day  hath  been, 

On  thee  —  still  thee  —  each  dream  by  night. 
The  warrior's  love  the  world  may  know, 

'T  is  stamped  with  blood  on  flashing  steel, 
But  who  may  tell  or  what  may  show 

The  deep  wild  passion  minstrels  feel  ? 

Love  thee  ?  go,  ask  the  stars  that  keep 

Their  midnight  watch  in  yonder  sky, 
At  the  lone  hour  when  others  sleep, 

Whose  was  the  ever-wakeful  eye  ? 
Go,  tell  the  echoes  to  proclaim 

That  slumber  on  yon  mountain's  crest, 
Whose  was  the  voice  and  what  the  name 

That  waked  them  from  their  nightly  rest. 

Love  thee  ?  here  gaze  upon  this  brow, 

Which  once  they  whispered  me  was  fair, 
All  changed  and  flushed  with  fever  now, 

What  means  the  wasting  token  there  ? 
This  breast,  whose  throb  no  words  can  tell, 

This  aching  heart,  this  burning  brain,  — 
These  are  thy  answers,  read  them  well, 

And  never,  never  doubt  again. 


STANZAS. 

TO    THE    FAIR    POETESS    OF    MAEIPOSA. 

LADY  of  the  gentle  brow, 
Breathing  words  of  measured  flow, 
Sending  soft  a  murmuring  tone, 
From  the  wilderness  alone, 
By  the  power  of  "  runic  rhymes," 
Hear  and  heed  these  mystic  chimes ! 
Though  by  others  all  forgot, 
Lady  sweet,  forget  me  not. 

Fresno's  rapids  running  soft 
Bring  to  mind  thy  presence  oft, 
Calling  back  remembered  hours, 
Passed  with  thee  mid  Indian  bowers; 
Fresno  lyrest,  fair  to  see, 
Thou  art  fled  from  stream  and  me  ; 
Would'st  thou  wipe  away  the  blot, 
Lady  sweet,  forget  me  not. 

By  the  lip  of  melting  tone, 
Breathing  melody  alone  ; 
By  the  ringlet's  jetty  gleam 
Mirrored  in  the  Fresno  stream, 


218  VOICES   OF   THE-  BONDER. 

By  the  form  of  fragile  grace, 
By  thy  thoughtful  pensive  face, 
Telling  tales  —  I  scarce  know  what 
Lady  sweet,  forget  me  not. 

By  the  light  which  o'er  me  burst 
When   I  saw  thy  bright  eye  first, 
By  the  shadow  o'er  me  cast 
When  1  saw  that  bright  eye  last, 
By  thy  voice  of  soft  farewell, 
Saddening  where  its  music  fell, 
By  our  sympathetic  lot, 
Lady  sweet,  forget  me  not. 

FOET  MILLER,  Mariposa  Co.,  Col. 


NEVER   MORE. 

SHALL  again  her  glance  pursue  me? 

Never  more ! 
Shall  her  gentle  words  subdue  me? 

Never  more ! 

Faded  is  the  wreath  which  crowned  her, 
Broken  is  the  spell  that  bound  her. 
And  my  heart  will  sigh  around  her, 

Never  more ! 

Shall  again  her  lip  caress  me? 

Never  more ! 
Shall  her  arms  in  fondness  press  me? 

Never  more ! 

Ever  since  our  last  cold  meeting, 
In  despair  of  kinder  greeting, 
Strangely  I  have  kept  repeating, 

Never  more ! 


WHAT   SHALL  I  TELL  HER? 

WHAT  shall  I  tell  her?  shall  I  say 

"  O  thou  who  art  my  throne, 
At  morn,  at  eve,  for  thee  I  pray, 

For  thee  I  live  alone?" 
No,  no  !  she  '11  mark  my  faltering  mien, 

The  truth  she  '11  soon  divine, 
And  she  will  say,  "  Another  queen 

Is  now  already  thine." 

What  shall  I  tell  her?  shall  I  trace 

The  look  I  love  to  see, 
And  murmur,  "  Oh,  for  model  grace, 

Pencil  should  paint  but  thee  ?  " 
No,  no  !  she  '11  tell,  amid  her  tears, 

Of  Time's  effacing  dye, 
How  canvas  soon  is  changed  with  years, 

And  cast  neglected  by. 

What  shall  I  tell  her?  shall  I  look 

Into  her  eyes  of  blue, 
And  whisper,  "  0,  thou  radiant  book, 

I  read  from  only  you  ?  " 
No,  no  !  she  '11  state  how  man  deceives, 

Treats  light  such  books  of  store, 


SOXGS   OF  THE  BOWER.  221 

How  heedless  fingers  soil  the  leaves, 
Or  turn  them  idly  o'er. 

What  shall  I  tell  her?  not  a  word 

These  eold,  calm  lips  shall  say ; 
Within  my  bosom,  like  a  sword, 

Close  sheathed  my  voice  shall  lay. 
In  the  dark  cavern  of  my  breast, 

Like  shell  in  Ocean's  cave, 
The  thought  there  born  there  too  shall  rest,  — 

Love's  "  cradle,  and  his  grave." 


TWILIGHT    STANZAS. 

As  dim  the  veil  of  evening  spread, 
Where  blushed  the  clouds  with  sunset  red, 
A  passion  youth,  by  love  opprest, 
Sang  as  he  watched  the  golden  west :  — 

"  Thou  bird  with  buzzing  wing  that  flies 
All  day  among  the  flowers, 

Go,  tell  the  maid  with  soft  blue  eyes, 
'T  is  thus  she  haunts  my  hours." 

As  fainter  now,  and  fainter  still. 
The  hues  of  daylight  tinged  the  hill, 
Again  from  passion's  melting  tongue 
Of  her  he  loved  the  music  rung :  — 

"  Ye  shadows  length'ning  to  repose. 

Along  the  sunset  streams, 
Go,  tell  the  maid  with  cheek  of  rose, 

She  darkens  thus  my  dreams." 


BEAUTY  SLEEPING. 

SHE  slept !  along  her  arm  of  snow 

Her  cheek  of  rose  serene  was  laid, 
While  clustering  curls  heaved'  to  and  fro 

On  every  wave  her  breathings  made. 
Each  zephyr,  as  it  stole  along, 

Went  past  her  couch  with  lighter  air, 
As  loath  to  wake,  with  pinion  strong, 

The  thing  of  joy  which  slumbered  there. 

She  slept !  the  thin,  transparent  lid 
Curved  calmly  o'er  her  eye  of  blue, 

But  though  the  earthly  orb  was  hid, 
The  spirit  light  still  struggled  through, 

While  o'er  her  lip  alternate  wrought 

A  quivering  pulse  which  went  and  came, 

As  if  some  dream  renewed  the  thought, 

O         ' 

The  waking  hours  had  ceased  to  name. 

She  slept  !  and  as  the  moonlight  rays 

Streamed  down   and  kissed  her  forehead  pale, 
(Sly  rovers  !  little  loath  to  gaze 

On  charms  which  night  forgets  to  veil,) 
'T  was  marvel  not  why  things  of  air, 

Bright  shapes  which  once  in  heaven  had  shone, 
Attracted  by  a  sight  so  fair. 

For  woman's  home  should  leave  their  own. 


AND  THOU  WERT  FALSE. 

"  La  jalowie  suit  de  pres  I'amour." 

AND  thou  wert  false  —  so  let  it  be ! 

If  o'er  that  shrine  of  beauty  rare, 
There  bends  unchecked  the  stranger's  knee, 

The  stranger's  heart  may  worship  there. 

A  chain  was  wove,  a  spell  was  cast, — 
The  links  are  broke,  the  charm  is  free, 

And  Memory,  when  she  views  the  past, 
Must  skip  the  page  which  tells  of  thee. 

I  little  thought,  when  o'er  thy  heart 
My  spirit  poised  her  raptured  wings, 

And  trembling  tried,  with  guileless  art, 
To  wake  the  music  of  its  strings, 

That  every  chord  where  passion  slept 
An  echo  gave  of  heedless  swell, 

That  every  string  the  angel  swept, 
Another's  touch  might  wake  as  well : 

That  like  the  lyre  which  hangs  alone 
Where  summer  winds  are  wont  to  play, 


SONGS   OF   THE   BOWER.  225 

To  every  breeze  't  would  yield  a  tone, 
For  every  ear  't  would  breathe  a  lay. 

Forget'st  thou  in  that  lonely  bower, 
Which  drooping  myrtles  clustered  o'er, 

The  pledge  we  gave,  of  glowing  power, 
In  token  of  the  vow  we  swore  ? 

When  o'er  thy  yielding  form  I  hung, 
And  craved  it  for  my  spirit's  shrine, 

And  gathered  from  thy  murm'ring  tongue 
The  low  response  which  sealed  thee  mine  ? 

And  thou  wert  false  !  so  let  it  be  ; 

If  o'er  that  shrine  of  beauty  rare, 
There  bends  unchecked  the  stranger's  knee, 

The  stranger's  heart  may  worship  there. 


15 


CAUTION. 

EXTRACT  FROM  AN  EARLY  POEM. 

1^.  .  .  .   TRUST  ever  doubtingly ! 

I  tell  thee,  Lilla,  friendship  is  a  name 
By  which  fond  hearts  are  covertly  betrayed. 
Falsehood  and  faith  meander  side  by  side, 
Like  neighboring  streams  which  meet  and  mix  in 
one. 

Hopes  are  like  bubbles 
That  burst  when  biggest,  and  a  lover's  vow 
Is  like  the  dew  which  at  Aurora's  smile 
Melts  into  nothingness. 

Love  chains  the  soul 

As  opiates  bind  the  senses  —  't  is  not  sleep  — 
'T  is  but  a  trance  which  doth  resemble  sleep, 
A  deep  unrest  of  strangely  mingled  dreams, 
From  which  the  fevered  sufferer  wakes  to  mourn, 
Vainly,  o'er  memories  perished. 


ALEIDA. 

THOU  hast  passed  from  my  heart  like  the  dew  from 

the  spray, 
Like  the  bloom  from  the  bud,  like  the  -light  from 

'  O 

the  day. 

Oh,  sad  is  the  shade  which  thy  memories  leave 
As  the  cloud  which   hangs  dark   on   the   brow  of 

the  eve  ! 

The  gleam  has  gone  out  from  those  beautiful  eyes 
Like  a  star  which  has  set  never  more  to  arise. 
And  the  rays  of  fond  Hope  which  once  glistened 

in  mine 
Are  mingled  and  lost  in  the  twilight  with  thine. 

Aleida !  Aleida !  stray  lamb  of  the  fold ! 

There  's  a  tale  of  the  fleece  which  't  is  hard  to  be 

told, 

A  story,  low  whispered,  of  evil  and  thee, 
Which  uncontradicted,  oh,  never  should  be  ! 
By  the  rose  of  that  cheek  which  I  've  trembled  to 

touch, 
By  the  snow  of  that  brow  which   I've   lauded  so 

much, 
By  thine   eye's   earnest   gaze   and   thy  lip's  gentle 

tone, 
Aleida !  Aleida  !  come  back  to  thine  own. 


228  VOICES  OF  THE  BORDER. 

Come  back  to  the  home  of  thy  innocent  mirth, 
Where  thy  mother  sits  sad  by  the  desolate  hearth, 
And  thy  silver-haired  father,  the  winter  eve  long, 
Impatiently  yearns  for  thy  accents  of  song. 
Return,  thon  estranged  one,  restore  us  thy  smile, 
And  thy  rosy  cheek    brother  shall    greet  thee  the 

while  ; 

Return  to  thy  sister  —  she  cannot  forget  — 
She  loves  her  Aleida  —  she  worships  her  yet. 

Aleida  !  thou  mother  —  yet  never  a  bride  ! 

I  speak  not  to  chide  thee  —  't  were  idle  to  chide, — 

Do  I  weep  ?    'T  is  not  weakness !  strength  wrestles 

in  vain 
When  the  fount   overflows  with  the  dew-drops  of 

pain. 
Tears  ?  •  Yes  !  —  nor    expect    me    the   torrent   to 

stay,  — 
When  the  flood-gates   are   lifted   the    stream  must 

have  way. 
Oh  !   grief,  —  how  I  loved  thee,  words  never   may 

tell  ! 
Aleida,  Aleida  !  farewell  —  fare  thee  well. 


SOFTLY  THE  SENTRY  STARS  OF  NIGHT 

SOFTLY  the  sentry  stars  of  night 
Shine  down,  my  love,  on  thee, 

And  I  arn  jealous  of  the  sight, 
Uncalled,  they  share  with  me. 

I  do  not  sigh  for  shining  gold, 

I  do  not  pine  for  gear, 
All  that  on  earth  I  care  to  hold 

Lies  softly  pillowed  here. 

This  Parian  brow  like  marble  fail, 

This  cheek  of  palest  rose, 
These  breathing  lips  of  carmine  rare, 

Oh !  more  than  wealth  compose. 

I  watch  thy  sleeping  brow  above, 

Wake,  dearest,  I  am  thine  ; 
Lift  thy  fringed  lids,  my  dreaming  love, 

And  whisper,  "  Thou  art  mine." 


I  WILL  NOT  LEAVE  THEE  NOW. 

I  WILL  not  leave  thee  to  the  scorn 

Of  colder  hearts  than  thine, 
The  cloud  which  veils  thy  sunny  morn 

Hath  also  darkened  mine. 
Though  worldlings  whisper  that  the  stain 

Of  sin  is  on  thy  brow, 
Warping  alike  thy  heart  and  brain, 

I  will  not  leave  thee  now. 

I  know  that  some  will  meet  thine  eye 

With  look  of  curious  gaze, 
While  some  will  coldly  pass  thee  by, 

Who  once  would  stop  to  praise. 
And  yet  of  these  —  or  yet  of  them, 

Who  first  the  stone  will  throw  ? 
They  err  the  most  who  most  condemn,  — 

I  will  not  leave  thee  now. 

No,  I  '11  not  slight  thee  !  what  is  done 

Perhaps  may  not  endure  ; 
I  '11  only  think  of  thee  as  one 

Who  once  was  bright  and  pure. 
Thy  youth,  thy  bloom,  thy  trusting  heart, 

Thy  fair  confiding  brow,  — 
'T  was  these  which  made  thee  what  thou  art 

I  will  not  leave  thee  now. 


I   EVER   DREAM   OF   THEE. 

I  DREAM  of  thee,  my  Mary  own, 

When  near  and  far  away ; 
When  stars  are  on  their  midnight  throne, 

And  in  the  noon  of  day ; 
Thy  gentle  image  from  my  heart, 

Whatever  change  may  be, 
Nor  time  may  change,  nor  distance  part, — 

I  ever  dream  of  thee. 

I  dream  of  thee  when  Autumn  rings 

The  death-dirge  of  the  flowers ; 
When  Spring  returns  on  dewy  wings, 

To  woo  the  laughing  hours. 
Though  Winter  weave  his  fleecy  chain 

Along  the  frozen  lea, 
Or  smiling  Summer  deck  the  plain, 

I  ever  dream  of  thee. 

I  dream  of  thee  when  sickness  strews 

My  couch  with  thorns  of  pain, 
Still,  still  of  thee  when  health  renews 

My  bounding  pulse  again  ; 
Alike  in  chambers  sad  and  lone, 

As  in  the  halls  of  glee, 
I  dream  of  thee,  my  Mary  own, 

I  ever  dream  of  thee. 


THE   UNREGRETTED. 

SHE  has  passed  away  —  she  has  passed  away, 

And  not  a  tear  is  shed  ; 
Not  a  sob  is  heard,  as  the  prayers  they  say 

Over  the  voiceless  dead. 
Night  with  its  stars  availed  her  not, 

And  nothing  the  gorgeous  day, 
Hers  upon  earth  was  a  lonely  lot,  — 

But  away  —  she  has  passed  away. 

A  brow  of  pain  and  a  hand  of  toil, 

And  limbs  that  failed  at  need, 
And  a  heart  that  shrank  at  the  world's  turmoil, 

These  were  her  daily  meed. 
Wishing  for  night  with  its  restless  sleep, 

Longing  for  morning's  ray, 
Hers  was  the  task  to  watch  and  weep,  — 

But  away  —  she  has  passed  away. 

She  has  winged  her  flight  to  the  heavenly  gates 

Where  the  "  King  of  Glory  "  stands, 
To  the  chamber  where  the  "  Bridegroom  waits," 

To  the  "house  not  made  with  hands." 
On  the  shining  shore  her  lot  is  cast, 

Where  "  living  fountains  "  play  ; 
Home,  home,  oh  joy !  to  her  home  at  last,  — 

Away  —  she  has  passed  away. 


MARY'S   LIPS   AEE   RED   WITH  ROSES. 

(ANACREONTIC.  ) 

MARY'S  lips  are  red  with  roses, 
Yet  how  cold  the  words  they  say ! 

Joy  on  Mary's  cheek  reposes, 
Yet  that  cheek  is  turned  away ; 

Still  for  all  this  careless  seeming, 

Mary's  eye  serenely  beaming, 

Shines  like  starlight  through  my  dreaming, 
Night  and  day. 

Mary's  lips  may  learn  their  folly, 
When  the  hour  is  past  for  bliss ; 

And  her  cheek  of  melancholy 
Vainly  turns  in  search  of  this ; 

When  she  finds  how  humors  vary, 

Then  perhaps  may  frugal  Mary 

Mourn  the  hour  she  was  so  chary 
Of  a  kiss. 


LATTICE   PEEPING. 

BUTTERFLY,  butterfly !  minion  of  light, 
Floating  like  gossamer  fast  from  rny  sight ! 
Tell  me  —  come,  whisper  ere  further  you  rove, 
Have  ye  met  as  ye  journeyed  the  smile  of  my  love  ? 
"  Whoever  thy  mistress,  she  stood  not,  I  ween, 
This  morn  as  I  passed  at  her  lattice  of  green, 
For  I  peeped  at  each  crevice,  but  nought  could  I  see 
Save  the  fair  mignonette  and  the  sweet-scented  pea." 

Humming-bird,  humming-bird!  gentlest  of  wing, 
Sipping  the  sweets  from  each  delicate  thing ! 
Say,  ere  ye  sail  to  your  nest  in  the  grove, 
Have  ye  heard  at  her  lattice  the  voice  of  my  love  ? 
"  That  I  've  peeped  at  each  casement  the  morning 

breeze  knows, 

For  it  bent  to  my  kisses  the  tulip  and  rose, 
But  nought  have  I  heard  at  the  porch  of  thy  fair, 
Save   the  buzz  of  the  bee  as  he  whizzed   through 

the  air." 

Butterfly,  butterfly !  fading  in  blue  ! 
Humming-bird,  humming-bird !  sipping  the  dew  ! 
Bring  ye  no  word  of  my  mistress  to-day  ? 
Swift  o'er  the  hill  to  yon  cottage  away  ! 


SONGS  OF  THE  BOWER.  235 

There  where  the  peony  and  princes'  red  plume 
'Neath  her  soft  culture  have  blushed  into  bloom, 
Hover  around  her  and  flutter  above, 
Till  ye  catch  at  her  lattice  a  peep  of  my  love. 


THINK  NOT  THAT  I  LOVE  THEE. 

THINK  not  that  I  love  thee  ! 

Ah  !  how  may  it  be  ? 
In  the  hush  of  the  twilight, 

I  think  not  of  thee  ; 
And  the  voice  of  my  lute- string, 

As  it  floats  o'er  the  frame, 
Mid  all  its  soft  murmurs, 

Breathes  never  thy  name. 

Think  not  that  I  love  thee  ! 

'T  were  an  idle  surmise,  — 
Love  lives  in  the  accents, 

Love  dwells  in  the  eyes ; 
And  never  by  glances, 

And  never  by  tone, 
Has  thy  bosom  discovered 

One  thought  of  my  own. 

Think  not  that  I  love  thee  ! 

No  story  I  tell, 
Can  woman  dissemble 

So  wise  and  so  well  ? 
Then  go,  and  forget  me, 

'T  is  vain  to  repine, 
For  my  heart,  though  't  were  breaking, 

Can  never  be  thine. 


WHY   DOTH   MUSIC   CHAEM   NO   MOEE? 

i. 
WHY  doth  music  charm  no  more  ? 

'T  is  because  thy  smile  has  faded ; 
Why  hath  life  but  little  store? 

'T  is  that  thou  its  joy  hast  shaded. 

Hope  hath  lost  her  cherished  token, 
Love  bewails  a  lute-string  broken, 
Words  thy  lips  should  not  have  spoken, 
Memory  weepeth  o'er. 


Time  there  was  I  prized  thee  well ! 

Ask  ye  why  the  charm  is  over? 

Words  there  are  full  plain  will  tell  : 

" Roving  heart  —  inconstant  lover" 

Myrtle-wreath  is  changed  for  willow  — 
Bark  of  Love  is  wrecked  by  billow  — 
O'er  that  bosom  once  his  pillow  — 
Toll  the  funeral-knell. 


THE  UNREQUITED. 

HE  left  her  in  her  beauty's  pride 

Sadly  to  sit  alone, 
He  who  had  worshiped  at  her  side 

And  trembled  at  her  tone  ! 
They  met  in  halls  of  glittering  light, 

But  not  as  once  before  — 
Although  her  lip  smiled  very  bright  — 

It  smiled  for  him  no  more. 

He  left  her,  and  with  phrases  fair 

Unto  another  turned, 
While  yet  was  trembling  on  the  air 

The  words  for  him  that  burned  ; 
He  came  once  more  with  accents  dear 

And  craved  that  slighted  strain  — 
But  ah!  the  songs  he  loved  to  hear 

She  never  breathed  again. 

He  left  her,  as  the  fickle  wind 
Leaves  flowers  that  scent  the  lea. 

While  every  word  bore  welcome  kind, 
And  look  as  love's  should  be  ; 

But  when,  upon  her  face  to  gaze, 
He  came  a  later  day, 


SONGS   OF   THE   BOWER.  239 

The  eye,  whose  glance  he  loved  to  praise, 
Was  coldly  turned  away. 

He  left  her  to  the  cold  applause 

Of  flatterers  smiling  gay, 
He  said,  he  scarcely  knew  the  cause, 

Yet  still  he  stayed  away. 
Time   may  perhaps  again  restore 

Her  image  to  his  brain, 
But  he  has  lost  what  never  more 

Shall  beat  for  him  again. 


THE   GRAVE  OF  MELLON. 

[ON  the  desolate  shore  of  Lake  Monroe,  in  Florida,  there  is  a 
grave  overshadowed  by  a  solitary  cypress.  This  tree,  probably 
from  its  isolated  position,  had  become  the  resort  of  a  whippoorwill, 
whose  mournful  notes,  on  a  still  night,  could  be  distinctly  heard  by 
the  troops  of  the  United  States  garrison  stationed  in  the  vicinity. 
The  grave  is.  that  of  the  ill-fated  Mellon  who  perished,  at  an  early 
period  of  the  Florida  War,  during  an  attack  of  the  Seminole  Indians 
upon  the  fort  which  bears  his  name.] 

WHY  seek  this  lonely  ground, 

Thou  melancholy  bird  ? 
Why  o'er  this  little  grassy  mound, 
When  evening's  shadows  gather  round, 

Are  thy  sad  accents  heard  ? 

Know'st  thou  yon  cypress  limb 

Shadeth  the  couch  of  death  ? 
Yet  there,  thick-veiled  mid  shadows  dim, 
All  night  thou  pour'st  thy  funeral  hymn 

Along  the  deep  wind's  breath. 

Is  it  the  chiming  roar 

Of  waves  that  come  and  go? 
Is  it  the  night-wind  moaning  o'er 
What  tears  may  ne'er  again  restore, 

That  binds  thy  soul  to  woe  ? 


SONGS   OF  THE  BOWER.  241 

Hath  not  the  day-star  power 

To  urge  thee  into  song,  — 
Day,  which  brings  gladness  to  the  bower, 
Lifting  the  lids  of  the  sleeping  flower, — 

Day,  with  its  sunlight  strong  ? 

Sing  when  the  mock-bird  sings ! 

When  the  locust  and  the  bee 
Blend  their  low  melody  of  wings 
With  the  glad  strains  which  morning  brings ! 

Oh,  why  is  night  for  thee  ? 

Ah  !  bird  to  sadness  dear, 

'T  is  thine  to  pour  the  wail 
O'er  one  thou  lov'st  to  linger  near, 
All  plaintive  to  the  starlight  clear 

Repeating  still  the  tale. 

Yes,  thine  it  is  to  tell, 

With  ever-constant  tone, 
How  he  who  braved  the  charge  so  well, 
Neath  the  same  spot  on  which  he  fell, 

Sleeps  silent,  cold,   and  lone. 

FOKT  MELLON,   Florida,  May,  1842. 


1C 


THE  BRIDE'S  DEPARTURE. 

BROTHER  !  speak  in  whispers  light, 
'T  is  my  last  —  my  last  good-night ! 
Never  more  our  steps  will  stray 
Through  the  garden's  scented  way ; 
By  the  homestead  of  the  bees, 
'Neath   the  shady  chesnut-trees ; 
By  the  meadow's  winding  stream, 
Glittering-  in  the  sunset  beam  ; 
Gentle  brother,  smile  and  bless  — 
'T  is  my  last  —  my  last  caress. 

Sister !  with  thine  eyes  of  blue, 
Hither  come  and  weep  "  adieu  !  " 
Let  thy  arm  around  me  twine, 
Let  thy  cheek  repose  on  mine, 
While  I  gaze  into  thy  face 
Circled  in  this  dear  embrace  ! 
Thou  hast  ever  proved  to  me 
All  that  love  could  wish  to  be; 
Yet  I  leave  thy  heart  alone,  — 
Brother!  sister!  bless  your  own. 

Mother!  thou  hast  rocked  my  head 
Softly  on  its  cradle  bed ; 


SONGS   OF  THE  BOWER.  243 

When  the  storm  was  raging  high 
Sweetly  sung  love's  lullaby ; 
Yet  I  part,  I  part  from  thee,  — 
Who,  henceforth,  will  sing  to  me  ? 
When  my  forehead  aches  with  pain 
I  shall  miss  that  early  strain. 
Mother !  with  thy  accents  mild, 
Once  more  bless  thy  weeping  child. 

Father,  thou  hast  loved  me  well, — 
More  than  human  tongue  may  tell; 
More  than  wealth,  from  childhood's  hour, 
Thou  hast  lavished  on  thy  flower  ; 
Now  thy  locks  are  waxing  gray,. 
From  thy  heart  I  pass  away. 
Never  more  thy  lips  at  eve 
On  my  cheek  their  kiss  will  leave ; 
In  the  prayer  of  undertone, 
Mother  !  father !  bless  your  own. 


THE   PASSING  BELL* 

"  Dust  to  dust  —  ashes  to  ashes." 

"  DUST  to  dust,"  yon  solemn  bell 

Daily  says  or  seems  to  say  ; 
Hark !  its  rolling,  tolling  knell,  — 

"  Dust  to  dust  and  clay  to  clay." 
By  the  angel  now  at  rest, 

By  the  flower  my  bosom  wore, 
(Snatched  untimely  from  my  breast,) 

Hollow  herald,  toll  no  more ! 

Hast  thou,  tongue  of  iron  frame, 

Never  note  for  larum  call, 
Tone  to  tell  of  threat'ning  flame, 

Joyous  sound  for  festive  hall  ? 
Yonder  moves  the  bridal  train,  — 

Peal  love's  merry  roundelay ! 
Tolls  the  deep  bell  back  again, 

"  Dust  to  dust  and  clay  to  clay." 

"  Dust  to  dust "  —  once  more  that  sound 
Thrills  upon  the  listening  ear ; 

*  Suggested  by  the  frequent  tolling  of  the  bell  at  Trinity  Church, 
at  Newport,  R.  I.,  during  the  prevalence  of  a  severe  epidemic. 


SONGS   OF  THE  BOWER.  245 

Under-voices  whisper  round, 

Tearful  glances  watch  the  bier! 
Like  as  billows  fall  and  rise, 

Echo  answers  far  away  — 
(Bridegroom,  turn  aside  your  eyes)  — 

"  Dust  to  dust  and  clay  to  clay." 

Whose  is  now  the  requiem  lone 

Pealing  on  the  evening  wind  ? 
Whose  is  now  the  spirit  gone, 

Leaving  hearts  of  care  behind  ? 
Tolling  from  the  belfry  high, 

'Neath  the  hammer's  measured  play, 
Slowly  surged  that  one  reply, — 

"  Dust  to  dust  and  clay  to  clay." 


THE   RELEASED   SPIRIT. 

"  By  the  garland  on  the  bier 
Weep,  a  maiden  claims  thy  tear." 

MRS.  HEMANS. 

SISTER,  wild  with  many  a  prank, 
Romping  o'er  the  violet-bank, 
Till  afar  like  misty  screen 
Sky  and  dim  wood  intervene ! 
She  who  twined  amid  thy  hair 
Flowers  't  was  thy  delight  to  wear ; 
She  hath  bid  farewell  to  thee,  — 
Sister,  weep  and  bend  the  knee. 

Brother,  with  thy  brow  of  dread 
Bronzed  on  fields  where  warriors  tread, 
And  thy  tone  of  stern  command, 
Thrilling  mid  our  household  band, 
And  thy  look  of  marksman  pride ! 
Come  and  view  the  archer's  bride  ; 
Silent  is  her  voice  of  glee,  — 
Brother,  weep  and  bend  the  knee. 

Mother,  with  thy  heart  unstrung, 
Grieving  for  the  fair  and  young, 
From  thy  wilderness  of  grief, 
Vainly  pleading  for  relief! 


SONGS  OF  THE  BOWER.  247 

Come,  where  sorrow  hath  no  thrill, 
Where  the  moan  of  pain  is  still : 
Here,  beside  the  precious  clay, 
Weeping  mother,  come  and  pray. 

Father,  but  on  earth  no  more, 
Thou,  who  ripe  for  heaven  before, 
Left  her  spirit  bound  in   clay, 
Panting  for  its  bridal  day ! 
From  thy  mansion  in  the  skies, 
Come,  and  help  an  angel  rise  ; 
See  her  smile  of  radiance  mild, — 
Father,  Spirit,  take  thy  child! 


PRAYER  OF  THE  YOUNG  NOVICE. 

JESUS,  Prince  of  mystic  birth, 
King  in  heaven  and  man  on  earth, 
One  or  Three  —  whiche'er  thou  art  — 
Son  of  Mary,  shield  my  heart ! 

Where  the  censor's  cloud  ascends, 
Sick  at  heart  Thy  handmaid  bends, 
If  avail  a  maiden's  tear, 
Smile  on  her  who  worships  here  ! 

Pardon  grant  for  what  I  tell ; 
I  have  loved  —  alas,  too  well ; 
That  sweet  idol   Thou  should'st  be, 
One  on  earth  has  been  to  me. 

Yet  when  matins  call  to  meet, 
Here  I  come  to  kiss  Thy  feet ; 
Gazing  on  Thy  image  dim, 
Here  I  pray  at  vesper  hymn. 

Oh,  from  out  Thy  rainbow  crown, 
Pour  Thy  mild  effulgence  down  ! 
Shield  me  from  this  wild  distress ; 
Son  of  Mary,  smile  and  bless  ! 


BEIDE,  UPON  THY   MARRIAGE    DAY. 

LINES    WRITTEN    IN    ACKNOWLEDGMENT    OF    A    ROSE    RECEIVED 

FROM  THE  HANDS   OF   A   LADY   ON   THE  EVE  OF 

HER    MARRIAGE. 

BRIDE,  upon  thy  marriage  day, 
Yielding  all  thy  wealth  away, 
Wealth,  thy  lover  would  not  bart, — 
In  the  simple  boon,  thy  heart ! 
By  the  pledge  of  rosy  hue, 
Softly  passed  to  me  from  you, 
Pray  that  He  who  made  the  flowers, 
Guard  thee  when  no  longer  "ours.". 

Soon  with  spell  of  golden  band, 
Will  the  ring  be  on  thy  hand  ; 
Soon  before  the  face  of  Heaven, 
Will  thy  plighted  vows  be  given. 
But  though  passing  sweet  to  be 
With  the  one  who  lives  for  thee  — 
Never,  mid  thy  altered  lot, 
Be  thy  parents'  love  forgot. 

Bride,  upon  thy  marriage  eve, 
Looking  smiles,  yet  taking  leave, 
Casting  off  the  ties  at  home, 
By  another's  side  to  roam ! 


250  VOICES   OF  THE   BORDER. 

Pray,  though  joy  its  sense  may  dim, 
Still  thy  soul  may  cling  to  Him  ; 
From  the  safe  and  narrow  way, 
That  thy  footsteps  never  stray. 

Ask  that  He  who  rules  above 
Teach  thee  from  His  book  of  love, 
That  His  frown,  in  after  years, 
May  not  turn  thy  smiles  to  tears, 
But  through  grace  for  thee  and  thine, 
Ever  more  His  mercy  shine. 
Bride,  upon  thy  marriage  day, 
Wreathed  with  roses,  kneel  and  pray  ! 


SUNBEAMS  AND   SHADOWS. 

"  All  that 's  bright  must  fade, 
The  brightest  still  the  fleetest." 

WHEN  the  sky  wears  richest  shade, 
Then  the  sun  begins  to  fade  ; 
When  the  rose  is  fullest  spread, 
Then  begins  to  droop  its  head. 

Sweetest  strains  the  song-birds  sing, 
At  the  hour  they  take  to  wing ; 
Softest  is  the  rainbow's  light, 
At  the  time  it  fades  from  sight. 

Morning's  dew-drops  shine  most  fair 
Just  before  exhaled  in  air ; 
Evening's  star-queen  twinkles  best, 
Shortly  ere  it  sinks  to  rest. 

Such,  ah  such  is  human  life  !  — 
Peace,  the  harbinger  of  strife, 
Smiles,  forerunner  of  the  tear, 
Joy,  but  Sorrow's  pioneer. 

But  there  is  a  clime  above, 
Lighted  by  the  sun  of  love, 


252  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

Where  the  spirit  free  may  range, 
Unrepressed  by  earthly  change  ; 

Where  Hope's  smile  will  not  deceive, 
Pleasure  leave  the  heart  to  grieve  ; 
May  our  souls  the  grace  be  given, 
To  secure  that  changeless  heaven ! 


FLOWERS   AND   POETRY   FOR  ADA. 

"  Bring  flowers,  fresh  flowers  for  the  fair  young  bride." 

MRS.  HEMAJJS. 

DEAR  Ada,  keep  these  wild-flowers  few 
A  father's  hand  has  plucked  for  you ; 
Receive  them  as  a  pledge  sincere 
That  father  loves  his  daughter  dear. 
One  is  a  flower  vermillion  dyed, 
Soft  symbol  of  a  blushing  bride  ; 
Another  white  —  an  emblem  sure 
Of  gentleness  and  virtue  pure  ; 
The  third,  an  earnest  still  of  you, 
Is  tinged  with  true  love's  loveliest  blue. 
Would,  daughter  dear,  that  I  with  this, 
Could  also  send  a  parent's  kiss. 
But  ocean  rolls  between  us  wild, — 
A  father's  blessing  on  his  child ! 

FORT  MILLER,   California,  March  14, 1853. 


THE   AGED   MOTHER. 

[ALL  day  long  she  sits  in  her  easy-chair,  and  dreams  at  night  of 
her  little  children;  pleasant  dreams  of  youthful  happiness  which  she 
will  again  realize  in  that  country  where  the  inhabitants  shall  never 
say  "  I  am  weary."]  —  Epistle  from  a  Sister. 

OH,  rouse  her  not  —  she  sleeps  — 

See  how  serene  she  lays ! 
Close  by  her  chair  an  angel  keeps ! 

She  dreams  of  earlier  days. 

The  agony  and  strife, 

Of  years  twice  two  the  score, 
The  passion  and  the  pride  of  life, — 

Oh  joy,  she  feels  no  more. 

Unconscious  of  the  hours 

Which  flit  life's  sands  away, 
Her  spirit  roams  mid  birds  and  flowers 

Of  girlhood's  laughing  day. 

She  sees  the  festive  heel 

In  the  red  lamp-light  glance, 
And  threads  again  the  faultless  reel 

Of  the  good  New  England   dance. 

Around  the  homestead  fire, 

(Whose  light  long  since  has  gone,) 


SONGS    OF   THE   BOWER.  255 

The  young  wife  sits  with  child  and  sire, 
And  feels  no  more  alone. 

Along  the  China  tile* 

She  shows  each  group  of  grace, 
While  feeble   fingers  strive,  the  while, 

To  grasp  the  checkered  face. 

For  them  the  board  is  set, 

For  them  the  feast  is  spread, 
They  meet  again  as  once  they  met, 

The  living  and  the   dead. 

In  memory's  chamber  dim 

She  hears  the  wonted  prayer, 
She  sings  again  the  cradle-hymn, 

And  thinks  her  offspring  there. 

And  holier  far  than   song, 

She  hears  the  Sabbath  chimes, 
While  slow  her  footsteps  steal  along 

The  aisle  of  olden  times. 

She  sleeps,  behold  her  face ! 

What  smile  of  radiance  rare  ! 
Tread    softly  —  't  is  a  holy  place  — 

An  angel  guards  her  chair. 

*  Alluding  to  the  tiles  by  which  the  exterior  of  the  old-fasliioned 
fire-places  was  bordered.  They  were  made  of  porcelain  and  dec 
orated  with  Chinese  figures,  whose  grotesque  appearance  was  well 
calculated  to  excite  the  admiration  of  the  "young  idea." 


LINES  AT  MY  SISTER'S   GRAVE. 

BESIDE  thy  dewy  grave  I  pass, 

(A  fresh  and  flowery  mound,) 
Sunlight  is  glancing  on  the  grass, 

And  the  redbreast  chirps  around ; 
While  from  afar  the  city's  hum 

Steals  gently  on  the  ear ; 
And  yet  for  me  is  Nature  dumb,  — 

Thy  voice  I  cannot  hear. 

Thou  told'st  me,  from  a  distant  land, 

I  ne'er  should  be  forgot,  — 
I  come  —  e'en  at  thy  side  I  stand, 

And  yet  thou  heed'st  me  not. 
Where  are  those  accents  which  were  heard 

So  oft  on  music's  breath  ? 
Sister  !  —  I  hear  no  answering  word  ! 

Ah,  say,  can  this  be  death? 

Beside  my  father's  aged  form 

They  've  laid  thee,  breast   to  breast, 

Too  bitter  was  the  world's  bleak  storm, 
I) ut  both  are  now  at  rest. 

In  life  united  —  oh  with  such 
Affection  unde  filed ! 


SONGS   OF   THE  BOWER.  257 

In  death  'tis  well  their  coffins  touch, — 
The  father  and  the  child. 

Thou,  sister,  had'st  but  little  strength 

To  tread  life's  thorny  track ; 
So  calmly  dost  thou  sleep  at  length, 

'T  were  sin  to  wish  thee  back  ; 
The  music  of  thy  gentle  tone 

Though  to  my  bosom    dear, 
And  though  my  heart  is  sad  and  lone, 

I  would  not  have  thee  here. 

For  me  is  still  life's  stirring  tide, 

The  battle  and  the  storm, 
The  wave  where  warring  navies   ride, 

The  field  where  squadrons  form  ; 
But  thou,  with  no  long  watch  to  keep, 

No  dream  at  morn  to  tell,  — 
Freed  one !    thine  is  an  envied  sleep,  — 

Sweet  sister,  fare  thee  well ! 

September  17,  1848. 
17 


DEATH   OF    ADA. 

SHE  sleeps  !  be  still,  my  heart, 

Thy  throbs  are  all  in  vain  ! 
They  cannot  heal  grief's  bitter  smart, 
Nor  all  these  blinding  tears  that  start 

Recall  her  back  again. 

Why  did  she  pass  away 

And  leave  the  sunlight  here  ? 
Why  in  yon  chamber  silent  lay, 
When  close  below  were  flowerets  gay. 
And  birds  with  songs  of  cheer? 

Had  not  the  goldfinch  powers 

To  stay  her  lapsing  breath  ? 
Music,  whose  magic  chains  the   hours, 
Perfumes,  that  feed  the  drooping  flowers, 

Were  these  in  vain  'gainst  death? 

Then  too  should  Love  have  died, 
And  all  Love  holds  in  store,  — 
Alike  the  home  of  hearts  allied, 
And  the  sweet  name  of  earthly  bride 
Alike  —  for  evermore  ! 


SONGS  OF  THE  BOWER.  259 

Ada  in  climates  mild 

There  first  I  sang  of  thee ! 
Companion  —  friend  through  forests  wild  — 
Wife  —  mother  —  daughter  —  cherished  child  — 

And  is  it  thou  I  see  ? 

Stiff  folded  — frosty  fair 

Is  this  thy  small  white  hand  ? 
And  these  the  locks  of  flaxen  hair 
Which  floated  on  the  sultry  air 

In  the  far  Southern  land  ? 

I  bend  above  thy  cheek, 

I  stoop  and  kiss  thy  brow ; 
A  father's  lips,  all  quivering,  seek 
That  forehead  once  so  warm  and  meek, 

But  cold  as  marble  now. 

Hid  are  those  eyes  of  blue 

Within  a  curtained  spot ; 
Yet  on  the  lips  I  loved  to  view 
Seems  the  same  smile  which  once  I  knew, 

Save  that  it  changes  not. 

One  answering  look  of  thine, 

And  I  would  not  complain  ! 
One  motion  more  from  that  cold  shrine, 
And  I,  methinks,  would   not  repine 

Nor  shed  a  tear  again  ! 


260  VOICES  OF  THE  BORDER. 

Could'st  thou  but  wake  to  weep,  — 

One  last  sad  word  to  tell ! 
But  no,  so  calm  thy  slumber  deep, 
'T  were  cruel  to  disturb  such  sleep,  — 
Sjveet  daughter,  fare  thee  well ! 


I  'M  STANDING  BY  THEE,  FATHER  DEAE. 

I  'M  standing  by  thee,  father  dear, 

I  'm  standing  close  by  thee  ; 
And  yet  thy  voice  I  do  not  hear, 

Thy  face  I  do  not  see. 
And,  oh !  I  mourn  with  vain  regret 

The  smile  of  welcome  mild, 
Which  ever  greeted,  when  we  met, 

Till  now,  thy  wandering  child. 

I  little  thought  when  on  that  day, 

Dim  with  the  mist  of  years, 
Thou  watched'st  the  bark  which  bore  away 

The  object  of  thy  tears, 
Although  thy  locks  were   frosted  o'er 

By  Time's  ensilvering  tide, 
I  ne'er  again  should  see  thee  more, 

My  parent  and  my  guide. 

A  weary  march  I've  had  since  then 

Over  the  world's  wide  plain  ; 
I  've  wrestled  in  the  strife  with  men, 

And  battled  with  the  brain ; 
By  fortune  prompted  still  to  roam, 

I've  ranged  from  land  to  land, 


262  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

Now  o'er  the  ocean's  billowing  foam, 

O  ' 

Now  o'er  the  desert's  sand. 

And  after  many  a  month,  my  friend, 

And  after  many  a  year, 
I  come  to  bow  where  thou  did'st  bend, 

And  I  behold  thy  bier; 
I  reach  once  more  the  cherished  spot, 

For  which  so  long  I've  sighed, 
Only  to  feel  that  thou  art  not,  — 

Kind  sire,  that  thou  hast  died. 
NEWPORT,  R.  I.,  September,  1850. 


THE   PAST. 

THE  past  !  the  past !  't  is  all  my  dower, 

For  that  I  live  alone  ! 
To  sit,  from  morn  till  evening  hour, 

And  dream  on  what  is  gone. 
And  as  through  memory's  shadowy  glass 

My  clouded  sight  I  strain, 
Dim  images  of  youth-time   pass 

Before  my  eyes  again. 

The  parent  forms  so  much  I  loved 

I  see  beside  the  hearth, 
And  where  my  little  sisters  roved, 

I  hear  the  laugh  of  mirth. 
And  from  the  window  where  the  sun 

Shone  at  the  rise  of  day, 
The  garden  flowers  I  look  upon 

In  the  sweet  month  of  May. 

I  see  the  time-piece  where  it  stands 

In  the  old  oaken  hall, 
And  watch  the  movement  of  the  hands, 

As  round  the  face  they  crawl ; 
They  always  went  so  slow  to  me, 

I  would  have  \vhipt  them  by, 


264  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

Thinking,  amid  my  childish  glee, 
Time  should  be  made  to  fly. 

They  tell  me  now  my  sire  is  dead, 

And  that  my  home  is  changed, 
That  brothers  —  sisters  —  all  have  fled  — 

Since  I  abroad  have  ranged. 
This  tale  I  count  as  most  untrue, 

And  one  they  must  not  name, 
For  oft  I  see,  in  fancy's  view, 

That  homestead  still  the  same. 

And  if  our  house  is  turned  around, 

It  is  not  turned  for  me, 
Full  well  I  know  the  garden  ground, 

And  every  bush  can  see. 
And  if  abroad  the  words  be  told, 

One  parent  lives  to  grieve, 
While  one  is  sleeping  'neath  the  mould  — 

The  tale  I  '11  not  believe. 

My  brother's  features  too  I  see, 

And,  beaming  like  a  sun. 
My  sisters'  eyes  look  round  on  me  — 

My  sisters,  all  but  one  — 
She  changed  —  she  died  —  her  heart  was  flame, 

And  was  too  warm  to  last ! 
Save  this  —  our  home  is  still  the  same  ; 

I  live  but  in  the  past. 


INDIAN  MELODIES. 


"  He  sees  his  God  in  clouds,  and  hears  him  in  the  wind."  —  Pope. 


THE    SEMINOLE'S  REPLY. 

["  THE  attack  on  Fort  Mellon,  River  St.  Johns,  Florida,  was 
made,  it  is  supposed,  by  '  Philip  '  and  his  gang.  This  action  must 
have  taken  place  before  information  of  the  truce  was  received  by 
the  Indians."] — Southern  paper. 

BLAZE,  with  your  serried  columns ! 

I  will  not  bend  the  knee ! 
The  shackle  ne'er  again  shall  bind 

The  arm  which  now  is  free. 
I  've  mailed  it  with  the  thunder. 

Where  the  tempest  muttered  low, 
And  where  it  falls  ye  well  may  heed 

The  lightning  of  the  blow. 

I  've  scared  ye  in  the  city, 

I  've  scalped  ye  on  the   plain  — 

Go  seek  your  chosen  where  they  fell 
Beneath  my  leaden  rain.* 

I  scorn  your  proffered  treaty  — 
The  pale-face  I  defy  — 


*  At  Dade's  Massacre,  which  took  place  near  Tampa  Bay,  Florida, 
in  December  1835,  the  entire  command,  consisting  of  three  com 
panies  of  the  United  States  Artillery,  was  slaughtered,  with  the  ex 
ception  of  three  individuals  who  escaped  by  feigning  death  during 
the  progress  of  the  work  of  destruction. 


268  VOICES   OF   THE  BORDER. 

Revenge  is  stamped  upon  my  spear 
And  "  Blood "  my  battle-cry. 

Some  strike  for  hope  of  booty, 

Some  to  defend  their  all  — 
/  battle  for  the  joy  I  have 

To  see  the  white  man  fall. 
I  love,  among  the  wounded, 

To  hear  his  dying  moan ; 
And  catch,  while  chanting  at  his  side, 

The  music  of  his  groan. 

•  Ye  've  trailed  me  through  the  forest ! 

Ye  've  tracked  me  o'er  the  stream  ! 
And  struggling  through  the  everglade, 

Your  bristling  bayonets  gleam  ; 
But.  I  stand  as  should  the  warrior, 

With  his  rifle  and  his  spear, 
The  scalp  of  vengeance  still  is  red  — 

And  warns  ye  — "  Come  not  here." 

Think  ye  to  find  my  homestead  ? 

I  gave  it  to  the  fire ! 
My  tawny  household  do  ye  seek  ? 

I  am  a  childless  sire  !  * 
But  should  ye  crave  life's  sustenance, 

Enough  I  have,   and  good ; 

*  It  will  be  remembered  that  many  of  the  Seminoles  destroyed 
their  own  children,  they  being  considered  an  incumbrance  to  the 
war. 


INDIAN   MELOt>IES.  269 

/  live  on  hale  —  't  is  all  my  bread, 
And  light  is  not  my  food. 

I  loathe  ye  with  my  bosom, 

I  scorn  ye  with  mine  eye, 
And  I'll  taunt  ye  with  my  latest   breath 

And  fight  ye  till  I  die. 
I  ne'er  will  ask  ye  quarter, 

And  I  ne'er  will  be  your  slave, 
But  I'll  swim  the  sea  of  slaughter, 

Till  I  sink  beneath  its  wave. 


«  TA-BISE-QUONGH."  * 

[UPON  the  bank  of  a  beautiful  stream  which  empties  itself  into 
the  Saint  Clair,  an  Indian,  by  the  name  of  Ta-bise-quongh,  was 
one  day  discovered  by  an  officer  of  the  United  States  Army.  His 
canoe  was  drawn  up  beside  him  on  the  sand  and  he  was  surrounded 
by  a  small  but  faithful  remnant  of  his  once-numerous  followers. 
This  chief  was  dying,  and  before  the  officer  left  the  spot  the 
"  Voice  of  the  Rolling  Thunder"  was  hushed  in  the  forest.] 

HUNTER,  why  thy  bow  unbent, 
E'er  the  deadly  shaft  be  sent? 
Droops  thy  lofty  spirit  here, 
On  the  ridge  where  haunt  the  deer? 
Otters  bask  beneath  the  moon, 
Boundeth  by  the  fierce  raccoon, 
Traps  are  set,  and  scents  are  keen ;  — 
Need-je!  ka-win,  Nee-shee-sheen.f 

Brother,  here  are  herbs  for   thee, 
Plucked  beside  the  sugar-tree  ;  $ 
Charmed  plants  which  only  grow 
In  the  groves  of  Manito ; 
Eat,  and  thou  again  shalt  pass, 
Swiftly  through  the  tangled  grass ; 
On  my  hand  thy  forehead  lean,  — 
Need-je!  ka-win,  Nee-shee-sheen. 

*  Ta-bise-quongh  or  "  Voice  of  the  Rolling  Thunder." 
t  Friend  or  brother,  it  is  not  well. 
t  Sugar-maple. 


INDIAN   MELODIES.  271 

Hunter,  lead  the  royal  race, 
Guide  thy  eagles  to  the  chase  ! 
Show  thine  arrow's  glittering  tongue, 
Let  the  bear  outstrip  her  young  ! 
Raise  thine  arm  of  swarthy  stain. 
Let  the  wolf  recoil  again  ! 
Was  this  not  thy  wonted  mien  ? 
Need-je  !  ka-win,  Nee-shee-sheen. 

Brother,  raise  thy  drooping  head, 
'T  is  not  here  for  royal  bed ; 
Brother,  lift  the  shaded  eye, 
This  is  not  where  princes  lie. 
Tell  me,  brother,  is  it  thine  — 
Scattered  leaf  and  fallen  pine, 
Thou  with  beads  of  blue  and  green  ?  * 
Need-je !  ka-\vin,  Nee-shee-sheen. 

Hunter,  hark !  o'er  forest  dim 
Bursts  afar  the  thunder  hymn ; 
Thunder  Spirits  muttering  say, 
"  Rolling  Brother,  haste    away  !  " 
Need-je,  need-je!  thou  shalt  go 
Where  they  bend  the  golden  bow, 
Where  the  fields  are  ever  green,  — 
Need-je,  need-je !  Nee-shee-sheen.f 

*  Diversity  of  color,  together  with  the  quantity  of  beads  worn  by 
the  Indian  warrior,  is  supposed  to  indicate  superiority  of  rank, 
t  Friend  or  brother,  it  is  now  well. 


PAWNEE   LOVE-SONG. 

SIGHING  SWAN  of  Wacomee, 
Hear  the  words  of  Nepowee  ! 
I  have  crushed  the  "  Eagle's   Claw," 
I  have  coped  with  Wabershaw, 
But  I  come  with  words  to  thee, 
Sweeter  than  the  sugar-tree. 
Sister  to  the  "  Sailing  Dove,"  * 
Listen  to  my  lay  of  love ! 

Daughter  of  the  "  Blazing  Knife," 
I  have  saved   thee  in  the  strife, 
Chased  the  wily  "  Fox  "  away 
When  Wacondah  bid  him  slay ; 
I  have  sent  the  ''  Rushing  Roe " 
To  the  grove  of  Manito. 
By  the  _  token  scalp  I  bring, 
Listen  to  the  "  Raven  Wing !  " 

*  Sister  to  the  Sailing  Dove.  For  the  information  of  the  unin 
itiated  it  may  not  be  deemed  inappropriate  to  state  that  the  above 
words,  marked  as  quoted,  together  with  others  of  a  similar  character, 
are  translations  of  terms  which,  in  the  original  vernacular,  are  used 
by  the  aborigines  to  express  tribal  names.  However  euphonious 
they  may  sound  to  the  ear  of  the  native,  the  task  would  be  a 
hopeless  one  to  attempt  embodying  them  within  the  confined 
limits  of  metrical  composition. 


INDIAN  MELODIES.  273 

Thou  art  graceful  in  thy  pride, 
As  the  swan  on  Kansa's  tide, 
Thou  art  lovely  in  thy  might, 
As  the  moon  on  Ozark's  height, 
Gently  do  thy  accents  flow, 
As  the  stream  of  Wulwanow. 
Smiling  child  of  "  Dawning  Day," 
Listen  to  the  hunter's  lay  ! 

I  am  mighty,  I  am  strong, 
I  am  son  to    Ta-bise-quongh  ; 
Broken  is  the  battle-charm 
When  I  raise  my  thunder-arm ; 
Harmless  steel  and  rageless  fire 
When  I  name  my  "  Rolling  Sire." 
I  am  mighty  —  thou  art  mild  — 
Listen  to  the  cloud-born  child  ! 


PAWNEE    CURSE. 

SPIRIT,  rider  of  the  air, 

Listen  to  the  red  man's  prayer ! 

Blight  the  "  Long  Knife "  *  with  thy  wrath  ; 

Let  the  foeman  haunt  his  path  ; 

When  he  toils  mid  tangled  brake, 

Let  him  tread  on  poisoned  snake  ; 

When  he  stoops  o'er  gushing  spring, 

Let  him  taste  the  adder's  sting ; 

When  he  shivers  'neath  the  storm, 

Clothe  him  not  with  blanket  warm. 

Spirit,  rider  of  the  air, 
Listen  to  the  red  man's  prayer ! 
Let  the  pale-face  thread  the  plain, 
Ever  doomed  to  hunt  in  vain  ; 
May  no  deer  at  twilight  dim 
Raise  the  antlered  head  for  him ; 
When  the  trout  is  in  the  brook, 
May  the  line  have  lost  its  hook  ; 
When  he  sees  the  startled  hind. 
May  his  hand  no  arrow  find. 

*  Long  Knife.      A  title  used  to  designate  a  chief  among  the 
pale-faces. 


INDIAN  MELODIES.  275 

Spirit,  rider  of  the  air, 
Listen  to  the  red   man's  prayer ! 
O'er  the  prairie's  burning  sea 
Let  the  "  Long  Knife  "  hunted  be  ; 
When  he  flies  his  scorching  bed, 
Let  his  trail  be  marked  with  red; 
Let  him  roam  where  forests  scowl, 
Startled  by  the  panther's  howl ; 
If  he  pause  by  spreading  oak, 
Blast  him  with  the  thunder-stroke. 

Spirit,  rider  of  the  air ! 
Listen  to  the  red  man's   prayer! 
When  the  "  Long  Knife's  "  eye  is  dim 
May  no  dirge  be  sung  for  him  ; 
May  that  land  he  never  know, 
Where  the  tawny  hunters  go ; 
May  no  flag  beside  him  wave ;  * 
May  no  bark  protect  his  grave ; 
Let  no  mother  rend  with  sighs 
Wigwam  where  the  pale-face  dies ; 
Spirit,  rider  of  the  air, 
Listen  to  the  red  man's  prayer  ! 

*  Among  some  of  the  tribes,  it  is  customary  to  adorn  the  grave 
of  a  distinguished  warrior  with  an  ornamental  covering  of  birchen 
bark.  A  small  flag  is  also  planted  beside  it  and  suffered  to  remain 
there  until  destroyed  by  the  Spirit  of  the  storm. 


SONG  OF  THE  TRAIL. 

COME,  brothers,  come  ! 

Merry  men  arc  we. 
Dashing  through  the  forest  shade, 

Weary  though  we  be. 
Hark !  the  bugle  sounds,  advance, 

Deeply  rolls  the  battle-drum, 
Draw  the  sword  and  poise  the  lance  ! 

Come,  brothers,  come  ! 

Speed,  brothers,  speed  ! 

Follow  where  he  flies, 
Wheresoe'er  his  footsteps  lead, 

There  the  pathway  lies. 
Hark  !    his  shout  is  on  the  wind, 

Dash  the  rowels  in  your  steed! 
Brake  and  briar  leave  behind! 

Speed,  brothers,  speed  ! 

Slow,  brothers,  slow  ; 

What  is  it  ye  crave  ? 
"  A  comrade  lies  along  the  path, 

A  corse  without  a  grave." 
Halt  the  column !  friends,  alight  ! 

Dig  his  bed  the  turf  below ! 


INDIAN   MELODIES.  277 

We  will  trace  the  trail  to-night ; 
Slow,  brothers,  slow. 

On,  brothers,  <jn  ! 

Draw  the  swords  of  men, 
By  his  prey  the  wolf  is  known, 

Trace  him  to  his  den. 
Follow  bloom  or  follow  blight, 

Battle  lost  or  battle  won, 
Darkly  blood  must  flow  to-night,  — 

On,  brothers,  on ! 

Strike,  brothers,  strike  ! 

Raise  the  battle-shout  ! 
Tawny  faces  haunt  the  path, 

Savage  eyes  gleam  out: 
On  upon  them  for  your  lives ! 

Wrestle,  pike  with  pike  ! 
P'or  your  homes  and  for  your  wives 

Strike,  brothers,  strike  ! 

CAMP  AT  TUSKEGEE,   Creek  Nation,  Go. 


SONG  OF  THE  INDIAN  GIRL. 

"  THE  sun  has  left  his  place  on  high, 

The  moon  is  in  the  glen, 
And  I  must  go  toward  yonder  sky 
To  keep  the  '  Panther's '  den." 

Thus  sang  beneath  a  rocking  pine 

A  maid  of  tawny  hue, 
And  as  she  wove  each  measured  line, 

She  strung  a  bead  of  blue. 

"Yes,  I  must  go  to  yonder  West, 
Where  mountain  daisies  grow, 
And  arm  the  shaft  and  point  its  crest, 
And  bear  the  loosened  bow. 

"  And  I  must  be  a  hunter's  bride, 

And  guide  his  swift  canoe, 
He  swore  it  when  at  eventide 
He  kissed  my  beads  of  blue. 

"  He  swore  it  by  the  Spirit  great 
That  rides  the  troubled  cloud, 
And  by  his  love  and  by  his  hate, 
And  by  his  bearing  proud." 


INDIAN  MELODIES.  279 

Thus  sang  beneath  a  rocking  pine 

A  maid  of  tawny  hue  ! 
And  as  she  wove  each  measured  line 

She  crushed  a  bead  of  blue. 

"  The  moon  has  left  her  place  on  high, 

The  wolf  is  in  the  glen, 
I  will  not  go  to  yonder  sky, 
To  keep  the  '  Panther's  '  den. 

"  Upon  the  stream  my  bark  shall  swim, 

Beside  the  lone  cuckoo, 
And  on  the  winds,  as  false  as  him, 
I  '11  cast  my  beads  of  blue." 


SONG  OF  THE   EMIGRANT  INDIAN. 

["AND  a  treaty  was  entered  into  between  the  Commissioners 
and  the  tribe  of  the  Sacs  and  Foxes,  wherein  the  latter  obligated 
themselves  to  retire  beyond  the  Mississippi  and  never  again  to 
return."] 

WE  pass  beyond  the  river, 

A  scorned  and  blighted  thing, 
We  have  dropped  the  bolt  and   quiver, 

And  the  bow  knows  not  the  string. 

The  voice  whose  tones  were  strongest 

Is  hushed  amid  the  strife, 
The  arm  that  fought  the  longest 

No  more  shall  wield  the  knife. 

Where  met  the  best  and  proudest, 

Gather  the  faces  pale, 
Where  rang  the  war-song  loudest, 

Springeth  a  voice  of  wail. 

The  deer  may  leave  his  cover, 

And  the  white  man  sit  alone, 
For  the  hunter's  toil  is  over, 

And  the  warrior's  strength  is  gone. 


INDIAN   MELODIES.  281 

We  pass,  O  braves  and  daughters, 

We  pass  beyond  the  stream, 
While  a  cloud  conies  o'er  the  waters, 

To  shade  the  red  man's  dream. 

We  leave  our  homes  behind  us, 

The  Spirit  gave  our  race, 
Nor  friend  nor  foe  may  find  us, 

For  where  will  be  our  trace  ? 

The  wolf  may  range  our  mountains, 

The  musk  may  scent  the  air, 
And  the  beaver  seek  our  fountains, 

There  is  none  to  set  the   snare. 

No  more  the  watch-dog  nightly 

Will  whine  for  our  return, 
And  the  wigwam's  torch-light,  brightly. 

No  more  for  us  shall  burn. 

We  pass  away  in  sorrow, 

As  sets  the  sun's  last  beam, 
But  for  us  there  comes  no  morrow, 

As  we  sink  behind  the  stream. 


INDIAN   DIRGE. 

[TiiE  Northwestern  Army,  after  following  for  many  days  the 
defeated  and  flying  tribe  of  the  Sacs  and  Foxes,  at  length  en 
camped  on  the  bank  of  the  Mississippi.  In  the  distance  the  last 
small  remnant  of  their  once-formidable  foe  were  discovered  chant 
ing  the  death-dirge  around  a  pole  erected  for  the  occasion.] 

NEED-JE,*  remnant  of  the  last, 
Gather  round  the  cedar  mast ! 
Tell  the  white  man  on  the  heath 
Need-je  sings  the  song  of  death  ! 
Beat  the  tambor,  shake  the  bells, 
Scare  him  with  the  Prophet's  spells ! 
Tell  him  —  let  the  red  man  be  — 
Ptshe-mo-ko-mon,  Puc-kee-ptshe.  f 

Sing  !  the  Hawk  hath  left  the  skies,:}: 
Never  more  to  stoop  nor  rise  ; 
.Broken  is  his  mighty  wing, 
Sing  the  death-dirge  —  Need-je,  sing  ! 
Hovering  o'er  his  prairie  nest, 
Bristles  now  the  P^agle's  crest ; 
Who  is  left  to  fight  or  flee  ? 
Ptshe-mo-ko-mon,  Puc-kee-ptshe. 

*  Indian. 

f  White  man,  go  away. 

J  Black  Hawk,  an  Indian  chief,  a  prisoner  in  the  hands  of  the 
whites. 


INDIAN  MELODIES.        ,  283 

Long  Knife,  Long  Knife,  tribe  of  fear, 
Wipe  the  yager's  crooked  spear  ;  * 
Let  your  vengeance  now  suffice, 
Hush  the  gun  that  thunders  twice  ;  f 
liaise  no  more  the  whoop  of  strife, 
Bury  deep  the  painted  knife !  $ 
Foxes'  last  papoose  are  we,  — 
Ptshe-mo-ko-mon,   Puc-kee-ptshe. 

Pale-face,  go,  but  not  in  rage. 
Feed  the  Hawk  within  his  cage ! 
If  ye  bind  him  wrist  to  wrist 
Let  the  cord  be  silver  twist, 
Bondage  such  as  once  he  knew 
When  ye  gave  him  beads  of  blue : 
Gird  him  not  to  burning  tree, 
Ptshee-mo-ko-mon,  P  uc-kee-ptshe. 
*  Bayonet.  f  Mortar.  J  The  sword. 


NIGHT  ON  THE   SANTA   FE,  FLORIDA. 

'T  is  night*  within  the   leafy  wood, 
'T  is  night  upon  the  restless  flood, 
And  not  a  cloud  is  in  the  skies 
Whose  burning  stars,  like  lover's  eyes, 
Watch  brightly  o'er  the  favored  tree  * 
Which  shades  the  rushing  Santa  Fe. 
The  wind  that  wooes  the  sunset  hour 
Is  cradled  on  the  sleeping  flower, 
Where  twilight  seemeth  still  to  cling 
Like  fondness  to  a  cherished  thing. 
It  is  the  hour  for  misty  dream 
To  rise  along  the  haunted  stream, 
For  minstrel  hand  with  measured  touch 
To  strike  the  lyre  it  loves  so  much, 
While,  like  a  bird  of  wandering  wing, 
Fond  fancy  hovers  o'er  the  string. 
And  here,  't  is  here,  like  stag  at  bay, 
The  brave  disputes  the  tangled  way, 
At  midnight  o'er  the  startled  flood, 
Yelling  the  vengeance  call  of  blood. 
In  yonder  hummock  long  and   low 
He  darkly  lurks  —  a  restless  foe, 
Well  pleased  to  cross  the  club  of  strife 
With  him  who  holds  the  "  burnished  knife."  f 
*  Magnolia.  t  The  sword. 


INDIAN   MELODIES.  285 

Oh,  who  would    think,  that  linger  here 

Along  these  waters   flashing  clear, 

That  every  ripple  bright  and  blue 

Has  stained  these  shells  with  murder's  hue  ? 

This  aged  tree  with  moss   o'ergrown 

Hath  seen  the  blow  and  heard  the  moan, 

That  hoary  rock  what  tales  could  tell 

Of  them  who  fought  and  them  who  fell ! 

I  heard  a  shout  upon  the  wind, 

Like  cry  of  wolf  that  trails  the  hind, 

I  heard  a  shriek  upon  the  lea, 

Like  terror's  voice  from  wreck  at  sea, 

While  pale  and  horror-struck  one  came 

To  gasp  "  the  deed  without  a  name." 

It  w.as  the  hour  when  evening  fair 

Came  down  to  close  the  eyes  of  care, 

A  father  watched  the  sunset  mild, 

A  mother  rocked  her  sleeping  child. 

There  as  they  sat,  those  happy  few, 

They  heard  the  whoop  —  too  well  they  knew. 

The  rifle  blazed,  the  hatchet  fell, 

And  did  the  deed  I  dare  not  tell. 

I  saw  them  by  the  moonlight  ray, 

As  side  by  side  in  death  they  lay. 

Upon  the  mother's  pulseless  breast 

Chill  slept  the  babe  in  dreamless   rest, 

While  o'er  the  pillow  where  it  laid 

Slow  oozed  a  stream  the  knife  had  made. 


286  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

It  slept,  but  oh  !    in  death  so  fair, 
I  almost  thought  that  life  was  there  ; 
So  fresh  its  lip  of  silent  strain, 
I  almost  dreamed  't  would  smile  again.* 

Bright  forms  who  bask  where  Freedom's  star 
Burns  in  the   Northern  sky  afar, 
Whose  darkest  care  is  but  to  stay 
Some  wanton  curl  that  dares  to  stray, 
Whose  deepest  grief  to  weep  at  slight 
From  lover's  hand  on  festive  night  ! 

O 

When  at  the  hearth  of  kindred  ground 
Ye  pass  the  vesper  kiss  around, 
And  from  the  social  evening  fire 
To  dream  of  those  ye  love,  retire, 
Ere  with  the  cheek  of  quiet  rest 
Ye  make  the  conscious  pillow  blest, 
Ere  yields  that  form  to  slumber  deep, 
Sleep  folding,  —  one  might  envy  sleep,  — 
Could  ye  but  let  your  fancy  roam 
One  moment  to  our  canvas  home, 
Where  weary  by  the  restless  flood 
The  sentry  walks  the  shore  of  blood  ; 
Then  ye  might  learn  what  toil  hath  he 
Who  guards  the  roaring   Santa  Fe. 

*  This  is  no  fiction.  During  the  summer  of  1838,  a  party  of' 
savages  entered  a  dwelling  on  the  banks  of  the  Santa  Fd,  Florida, 
and  after  murdering  the  elder  portion  of  the  occupants,  took  from 
the  cradle  an  infant  whose  brains  they  dashed  out,  and  left  the 
babe,  in  a  posture  of  repose,  on  the  bosom  of  its  dead  mother. 


SONG  OF   THE  "CRIMSON  HAND." 

[AFTER  a  party  of  Florida  Indians  had  been  placed  on  board  a 
transport  destined  to  carry  them  from  their  homes,  the  boat  by 
some  accident  grounded  immediately  opposite  the  Fort  at  Tampa 
Hay,  Florida.  During  the  night  they  were  held  in  this  durance, 
these  savages  consoled  themselves  by  chanting  a  sort  of  chorus 
which  alternated  with  a  variety  of  sounds,  some  of  which  were 
extremely  wild,  and  others  of  an  order  deeply  melancholy.] 

THE  voice  of  blood  went  forth, 

Up  from  the  border  line, 
It  thrilled  the  sea  from  South  to  North, 

And  it  shook  the  forest  pine. 

"  Rouse  up,  ye  warrior  band, 

And  join  the  song  of  blood, 
The  song  ye  hear  of  the  '  Crimson  Hand,' 

We  pour  along  the  flood  ! 
The  Spirit  whom  we  love 

Mutters  in  thunder  low ; 
Hark !    to  the  words  he  speaks  above,  — 

Woe  to  the  pale-face  !    woe  !  " 

Stern  voices  wildly  sang 

In  rude  but  measured  strain  ; 

Like  armor's  clang,  the  descant  rang 
Athwart  the  troubled  main. 


288  VOICES   OF   THE   BORDER. 

"  The  knife  is  stained  with  red, 

The  battle-axe  is  ground, 
And  moulded  is  the  poisoned  lead 

That  rankles  in  the  wound. 
No  more  we  chase  the  hare, 

We  hunt  no  more  the  roe, 
A  nohler  toil  henceforth  we  share,  — 

Woe   to  the  pale-face  !   woe  !  " 

'T  was  a  deep  and  mournful  strain  ! 

Slow  as  the  measured  tread, 
When  moves  the  train  on  the  tented  plain, 

To  the  roll  of  music  dead. 

"  His  brother  sitteth  not 

Beside  the  council-fire, 
The  hummock  heard  the  deathly  shot 

That  parted  son  and  sire.* 
Unto  our  palm-leaf  home  > 

They  came  to  seek  the  foe, 
They  came  —  they  fell  —  who  bid  them  come  ? 
Woe  to  the  pale-face  !   woe  !  " 

'T  was  a  chant  of  strange  turmoil  ! 
The  planter  caught  the  sound, 


*  At  the  battle  of  the  Okeechubbee,  which  took  place  in  Florida 
on  the  25th  of  December,  1837,  it  is  stated  that  the  son  of  Colonel 
Gentry,  of  the  Missouri  Volunteers,  was  wounded  by  the  same  ball 
which  proved  fatal  to  the  life  of  his  father. 


INDIAN  MELODIES.  289 

And  the  man  of  toil  forsook  his  soil, 
And  fled  for  the  guarded  ground. 

"  'T  is  ours  to  lie  in  wait, 

For  the  reaper's  team  at  morn ; 
We  burst  the  cribs  of  them  we  hate, 

And  we  crush  the  standing  corn. 
Amid  the  ripening  grain 

We  dance  with  merry  toe, 
Chanting  beside  the  tiller  slain, 

Woe   to   the  pale-face  !    woe  !  " 

The  panther  fled  the  sound, 

Stood  still  the  frighted  deer, 
And  on  the  bound  the  startled  hound 

Turned  back  and  crouched  with  fear. 

"  We  watch  the  road   beside, 

To  spill  the  purple  flood, 
And  when  with  hate  our  lips  are  dried, 

We  lap  the  curdled   blood. 
We  prowl  the  woods  at  night, 

We  scalp  the  sleeping  foe, 
We  live  for  vengeance  and  the  white,  — 

Woe  to  the  pale-face  f    woe!  " 

Like  screech  of  wild  curlew, 

It  passed  the  bed  of  rest, 
And  the  mother  knew  and  closer  drew 

The  infant  to  her  breast. 
19 


290  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

"Around  the  couch  we  creep, 

Yelling  the  war-whoop  wild, 
We  stab  the  mother  in  her  sleep, 

And  choke  the  shrieking  child. 
The  fagot  pile  we  raise, 

To  burn  their  wigwam  low, 
Fierce  shouting  o'er  the  spreading  blaze, 

Woe  to  the  pale-face  !   woe  !  " 

The  mount  with  voice  of  wail 
Prolonged  the  notes  of  dread, 

And  in  the  vale  the  planet  pale 
Went  down  and  set  in  red. 

"Ours  are  the  hands  to  dare, 

Fast  fettered  though  they  be, 
For  free  we  were  and  free  we  are, 

And  lo!    we  will  be  free! 
Unconquered  to  the  last, 

Out  from  our  homes  we  go  : 
We  hurl  our  curses  on  the  blast, — 

Woe  to  the  pale-face  !  woe  !  " 

TAMPA  BAY,  Florida,  1837. 


PALE  EVE  ON  WING  OF  STARLIGHT 
RAYS. 

[WRITTEN  at  Fort  Russell,  Florida,  on  the  departure  of  a  column 
of  troops  organized  for  the  punishment  of  a  party  of  Indians  impli 
cated  in  the  murder  of  the  wife  of  an  officer,  together  with 'a  por 
tion  of  the  escort  accompanying  a  wagon-train  from  Fort  Wheelock 
to  Fort  King.  The  circumstances  which  gave  rise  to  this  expe 
dition  involve  an  episode  of  the  war,  a  relation  of  which  will  not 
prove  uninteresting  to  the  reader. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  Florida  War,  Lieutenant  Montgomery,  a 
young  officer  of  the  United  States  Infantry,  stationed  at  Newport, 
Kentucky,  solicited  and  received  the  hand  of  the  fair  Miss  Taylor, 
a  young  lady  extensively  known  among  the  polite  circles  of  that 
city,  both  for  beauty  of  person  and  refinement  of  manners.  On  the 
departure  of  Lieutenant  Montgomery  for  Florida,  the  young  bride 
was  persuaded  to  accompany  him,  and  in  due  course  of  time  ar 
rived  at  Fort  Wheelock,  one  of  the  interior  posts  at  which  her  hus 
band  was  stationed.  To  relieve  the  ennui  of  garrison  life,  she 
accepted  an  invitation  from  her  friend,  Mrs.  Hopson  of  Fort  King, 
to  visit  that  post,  and  with  a  small  escort  accompanying  a  train 
with  provisions,  in  charge  of  Lieutenants  Sherwood  and  Hopson, 
started,  one  pleasant  morning,  on  the  anticipated  excursion.  The 
first  intimation  of  any  disaster  accruing  to  the  party  was  the  arrival 
of  the  animal  used  by  Mrs.  Montgomery,  which  came  galloping 
into  the  garrison  without  a  rider,  followed  by  several  of  the 
mounted  men,  who  stated  that  the  train  had  been  attacked  at  a 
creek  some  three  miles  distant  from  Fort  Wheelock,  which  report 
was  corroborated,  soon  afterward,  by  the  arrival  of  Lieutenant 
Hopson  himself. 

The  long  roll  was  immediately  beat,  and  a  party  of  mounted  men 
detached  to  the  spot. 

On  arriving  at  the  scene  of  danger,  it  was  ascertained  that  the 


292  VOICES    OF    THE   BORDER. 

enemy  had  fled.  Near  the  wagons,  the  horses  of  which  were  slain, 
lay  the  breathless  remains  of  Lieutenant  Sherwood  and  such  por 
tion  of  the  guard  as  had  possessed  sufficient  courage  to  remain  with 
him.  The  prostrate  and  bleeding  form  of  Mrs.  Montgomery  was 
stretched  near  them.  She  was  still  breathing,  but  unconscious,  and 
expired  soon  afterward.  She  had  been  divested  by  the  Indians 
of  her  riding  habit,  but  had  suffered  no  peculiar  acts  of  inhumanity 
at  their  hands.  The  frock-coat  of  Lieutenant  Sherwood  had  also 
been  abstracted  from  his  person. 

Soon  after  the  occurrence,  one  of  the  teamsters,  who  managed  to 
escape,  stated  several  interesting  particulars  in  regard  to  the  trans 
action"  to  which  he  professed  to  be  an  eye-witness.  The  Indians 
were  concealed  in  a  dense  hummock  fringing  the  borders  of  the 
creek,  and  on  the  approach  of  the  train  directed  a  well-aimed  volley 
at  the  mounted  men  who  preceded  the  wagons.  Lieutenant  Sher 
wood  immediately  dismounted,  formed  his  men,  and  directed  Mrs. 
Montgomery  to  alight  and  take  refuge  in  one  of  the  covered  wag 
ons  for  better  security  to  her  person.  At  the  same  time  Lieutenant 
Hopson  was  ordered  to  return  as  speedily  as  possible  to  Fort  Whee- 
lock  for  reinforcements.  Meanwhile  Lieutenant  Sherwood,  to 
gether  with  the  few  men  who  remained  with  him,  closed  around 
the  wagon  containing  the  unfortunate  young  lady,  in  front  of 
which  they  fell,  one  by  one,  beneath  the  murderous  fire  of  the  con 
cealed  enemy. 

It  was  during  this  period,  hoping  to  escape  unseen  amid  the 
general  melee,  that  the  teamster  who  drove  the  wagon  in  which 
Mrs.  Montgomery  was  located,  all  the  horses  of  which  had  been 
shot  down,  withdrew  the  young  lady  through  the  rear  of  the  vehi 
cle,  and  with  his  arm  around  her  fragile  figure  attempted  their  pre 
carious  flight.  The  effort  was  partially  successful.  They  had 
succeeded  in  gaining  a  considerable  distance  on  the  path  of  retreat, 
when  they  were  discovered  by  the  enemy,  who,  suddenly  issuing 
from  the  covert,  pursued  them  with  shouts  and  rapid  strides. 
Fear  might  have  added  wings  to  the  flying  fugitives,  had  not  the 
long  riding-dress  worn  by  the  young  lady  interfered  to  obstruct 
her  progress.  Entangled  within  its  trailing  folds,  she  frequently 
fell,  and  the  painful  fact  soon  became  evident  to  her  companion 
that  the  time  thus  lost  enabled  the  enemy  to  gain  upon  them,  and 
should  he  continue  to  remain  with  his  young  charge,  the  fate  of 


INDIAN   MELODIES.  293 

both  was  sealed.  Again  she  fell  ;  and  as  the  war-whoop  ap 
proached  nearer,  mingled  with  sounds  of  savage  laughter,  the  ter 
rified  wagoner  fled,  leaving  the  unfortunate  lady  to  her  fate.  Only 
once  he  glanced  behind  him.  his  eyes  being  attracted  in  that  direc 
tion  by  a  piercing  shriek,  when  he  perceived  the  forlorn  girl,  who 
had  regained  her  feet,  running  directly  toward  the  enemy.  Be 
wildered  with  terror,  she  courted  the  danger  which  gave  rise  to  it. 
and  no  doubt  soon  afterward  received  the  death-wounds  which 
prostrated  her  on  the  spot  where  she  was  subsequently  discovered. 
On  receiving  news  of  this  disaster  at  Fort  Russell,  a  post  contig 
uous  to  Fort  Wheelock,  an  expedition,  consisting  of  an  hundred 
men  of  the  Second  United  States  Infantry,  wa<  fitted  out,  and  pro 
ceeded  to  scour  the  country  bordering  the  Oklawaha,  where  the 
marauding  band  was  supposed  to  dwell.  Under  the  compelled 
guidance  of  three  squaws,  who  were  surprised  and  captured  while 
gathering  counti  roots  in  a  neighboring  wood,  the  troops  succeeded 
in  discovering  a  camp  of  one  of  the  principal  chiefs  named  Alec 
Tustemiggee.  The  Indians,  however,  had  abandoned  their  huts, 
which  were  found  to  contain  not  only  an  ample  supply  of  provis 
ions,  but  also  articles  of  plunder  taken  by  them  in  their  predatory 
excursions,  among  which  were  recognized  the  frock-coat  of  Lieu 
tenant  Sherwood,  and  a  remnant  of  broadcloth,  identified  as  a  por 
tion  of  the  riding-hnbit  which  had  belonged  to  the  victim  bride 
whose  sad  fate  was  so  deeply  deplored. 

The  troops  proceeded  to  burn  the  encampment,  and  after  an 
unsuccessful  and  haras-ing  pursuit  of  the  offending  party,  at  the 
expiration  of  some  ten  days,  returned  to  Fort  Russell. 

Although  the  main  object  of  the  expedition  was  unattained,  yet 
it  was  not  wholly  without  satisfactory  results,  as  it  culminated  in 
the  destruction  of  the  Indian  village,  and  the  capture  of  three  of 
the  females  belonging  to  it,  one  of  whom  proved  to  be  the  favorite 
wife  of  Alec  Tustenuggee,  the  renegade  chief.] 

PALE  Eve  on  wing  of  starlight  rays 

Flits  o'er  the  hostile  glen  ; 
Too  broadly  glares  our  watch-fire's  blaze,  - 

Rouse  up,  my  weary  men  ! 


294  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

Yon  flame,  like  Love,  though  seeming  bright, 

Betrays  us  with  its  charms ; 
The  archer  aims  beneath  its  light,  — 

To  arms,  my  boys  !  to  arms  ! 

He  comes  as  comes  the  summer's  breath, 

As  softly  steals  the  doe ; 
Draw  out  the  sabre  from  its  sheath, 

And  wait  the  wary  foe  ! 
Think  not  your  couch,  like  woman's  bed, 

Is  rife  with  soft  alarms  ; 
The  yell  of  blood  ye  hear  instead ; 

To  arms,  my  boys !  to  arms  ! 

Rouse  up,  and  let  no  coward  fear 

Arraign  your  bearing  high  ! 
Fond  Pity  sheds  her  choicest  tear 

To  see  a  soldier  die, 
And  when  the  life-flame  burneth  dim 

Within  the  breast  it  warms, 
'T  is  Glory  twines  a  wreath  for  him ; 

To  arms,  my  boys  !  to  arms  ! 


INDIAN  MELODY. 

HARK  !  his  shout  is  on  the  air ! 

Sound  ye  well  may  heed ; 
Woodman,  to  your  home  repair, 

Speed,  hunter,  speed ! 
"  Daughter,  why  thy  cheek  so  pale  ?  " 

"  Mother,  whisper  low  ; 
I  see  him  coming  down  the  vale, 

The  horrid  shrieking  foe  !" 

Hark,  &c. 

Hunter,  haste  !   and  heed  ye  not 

Where  the  game  hath  fled  ; 
Homeward  to  your  lonely  cot, 

Ere  the  knife  be  red ! 
"Now  they  launch  upon  the  stream, 

Now  they  reach  the  shore, 
Oh  mother !  how  the  hatchets  gleam, 

And  how  the  rifles  roar ! " 

Hark,  &c. 

Hunter,  speed  !    call  back  the  hound, 

Leave  the  stag  at  bay, 
Ford  the  stream  and  gain  the  ground 

Where  your  children  play! 


296  VOICES   OF   THE  BOEDER. 

"  Mother,  look  !    they  come  more  nigh  ! " — 

"  How  to  save  my  child !  — 
I  dare  not  stay,  I  dare  not  fly, 

They  shriek  so  fierce  and  wild ! " 
Hark,  &c. 


THE   FLIGHT. 

[!T  was  asserted,  by  some  of  the  Florida  prisoners,  that  a  column 
of  the  pursuing  army  bivouacked  one  night  on  a  spot  immediately 
contiguous  to  the  hiding-place  of  their  retreating  families,  who 
escaped  during  the  darkness  from  such  dangerous  proximity.] 

"  BROTHER  !  "  —  o'er  a  warrior's  side 

Softly  sung  a  forest   bride  :  — 
"  Brother  !  spread  the  blanket  warm,  — 

We  are  houseless  mid  the  storm ! 

But  the  pale-face  —  name  of  fear  — 

Thanks  !    may  never  venture  here  ; 

'T  is  the  hummock  green  and  wild, 

Only  known  to  Nature's  child  !  " 

"  Sister,  hark !  —  't  is  he  —  he  comes  ! 
Listen  to  the  signal  drums ! 
Know  ye  not  his  token  sound  ? 
Death  and  danger  hover  round. 
Note  his  watch-fires  through  the  pines,  — 
We  must  leave  our  home  of  vines  ; 
Faint   and  weary  though  we  be, 
Once  again  must  rise  and  flee ! " 

"  Brother !  'neath  the  spreading  palm, 
We  have  scattered  leaves  of  balm, 


298  VOICES   OF   THE   BORDER. 

And  our  children,  worn  with  care, 
Softly  now  are  sleeping  there. 
Wet  and  rugged  was  the  way 
Over  which  they  passed  to-day  ; 
We  have  wandered  many  a  mile, 
Let,  oh  let  us  rest  awhile." 

"  Sister !  sterner  couch  is  ours, 
Than  the  bed  of  scented  flowers  ; 
We  are  cast  on  Fortune's  flood ; 
They  are  near  who  seek  our  blood. 
Rouse  the  infant  from  its  dream  ; 
Leap  the  bank  and  cross  the  stream  ; 
Though  the  night  is  on  the  plain, 
We  must  tread  the  trail  again." 


THE  FALL   OF   MONIAC. 

[AMONG  the  many  brave  spirits  whose  remains  lie  buried  in  the 
sanguinary  glades  of  Florida,  few  have  fallen  more  lamented  than 
the  heroic  Moniac.  He  was  by  birth  a  Creek,  and  by  profession 
a  soldier ;  uniting  the  valor  of  his  tribe  with  the  scientific  skill 
attained  by  an  education  at  the  United  States  Military  Academy, 
his  success  in  the  field  in  almost  every  instance  was  triumphant. 
Although  the  breaking  out  of  the  Creek  War  seemed  calculated  to 
estrange  his  affections  from  his  whilom  adopted  brethren,  yet  his 
friendship  for  the  whites  remained  constant  to  the  last.  Soon  af 
ter  the  termination  of  the  Creek  campaign  in  the  summer  of  1836, 
Moniac,  together  with  other  warriors  of  his  nation,  accompanied 
Colonel  Lane  in  his  ill-fated  expedition  against  the  refractory  Sem- 
inoles,  and  such  was  the  trust  reposed  in  the  intrepidity  of  this 
daring  chief,  that  he  bore  rank  with  the  officers  of  the  army  of  the 
United  States.  From  this  expedition  Moniac  never  returned.  He 
fell  in  an  impetuous  charge  at  the  head  of  his  feathered  warriors, 
in  the  autumn  of  1836.] 

THERE  rang  a  voice  o'er  the  warrior's  clay 
Outstretched  on  the  field  of  death, 

And  I  caught  the  chant  which  it  seemed  to  say. 
Mid  the  pause  of  the  battle's  breath :  — 

"  Warrior  !   why  sleep'st  thou  here  ? 

Unclose  thy  deep-sealed  eye  ! 
The  battle-shout  is  on  the  car, 
And  the  death-shaft  hurtles  by. 


300  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

"  Unsheathe  thy  flashing  brand  ! 

Let  the  lightning  scan  its  sire  ! 
Spread  forth  in  might  thy  tawny  hand,  — 
Let  the  valiant  one  retire. 

"  The  tocsin  thunders  deep, 

And  the  charger  paws  the  plain  ! 
Up  !   rouse  thee  from  thy  listless  sleep, 
That  the  war-tide  swell   again  ! 

"  'T  is  for  the  twig  to  bow, 

When  the  storm-cloud  sweeps  the  skies, 
But  a  prouder,  loftier  thing  wert  thou  ! 
Warrior,  awake  !    arise  ! " 

Then  a  gentler  voice,  with  a  softer  tone, 
Swelled  where  the  warrior  lay ; 

And  I  caught  the  words  as  wild  and  lone, 
They  chimed  o'er  the  pulseless  clay :  — 

"  Sleep,  brother  ;  from  thy  cheek 

Life's  shadowy  cloud  hath  past! 
No  longer  there  the  storm  shall  wreak 
Its  wrath  —  nor  thou,  a  mortal  weak, 
Cope  with  the  pelting  blast. 

"  Than  thine  what  choicer  bed 

For  a  soldier's  weary  frame  ? 
With  the  flowery  earth  beneath  thy  head, 


IXDIAN  MELODIES.  301 

The  bright  blue  heaven  above  thee  spread, 
And  around  thee  hearts  of  flame. 

"  Rest !   for  the    race  is  run, 

Rest !   for  the  strife  is  o'er ; 
With  crimson  beams  to-morrow's   sun 
May  light  the  war-clouds  looming  dun  — 

But  thou  shalt  toil  no  more. 

"  Thine  is  the  lot  to  die 

And  share  a  household  grave ; 
To  slumber  where  thy  fathers  lie, 
Where  rang  of  yore  their  battle-cry, 

By  Withlacoochee's  wave. 

"  Far  happier  than  thy  band, 

Fast  scattering  to  the  wind, 
Urged  helpless  to  some  foreign  strand, 
An  alien  from  their  own  fair  land, 
Thou  shalt  remain  behind. 

"  Where  moss  and  wild-flowers   creep 

Along  thy  native  hills, 
Regardless  of  the  tocsin  deep, 
As  sleep  the  brave,  so  thou  shalt  sleep, 

Mid  the  music  of  the  rills." 


THE    MISTAKEN   VOLUNTEER. 

"On  gorgeously  they  come, 
With  plumes  low  stooping  on  their  winding  way, 
And  banners  glancing  in  the  sun's  bright  ray." 

Song  (>f  the  field. 

"  A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream."  —  BYRON. 

OH  !   once  I  was  a  soldier, 

And  very  trim  was  I  ; 
I  loved  to  hear  the  rattling  drum 

And  watch  the  colors  fly. 
It  was  my  pride  and  glory 

To  march  along  the  town, 
And  watch  from  every  window 

Some  pretty  eye  look  down. 

My  uniform  was  scarlet, 

My  plume  was  snowy  white, 
And  golden  mounted  was  my  sword, 

Whose  blade  was  very  bright. 
My  steed,  he  was  a  war-hor.se 

It  was  my  pride  to  sit, 
For  he  wore  a  broidered  saddle, 

And  he  champed  a  gilded  bit. 

Oh  !   life  of  martial  honor, 
Mingled  with  love's  array ! 


INDIAN  MELODIES.  303 

One  shining  button  on  my  breast 
Wrought  more  than  words  could  say. 

I  sat  beside  the  maiden, 

And  I  never  spoke  the  while, 

But  I  let  the  Eagle  glisten. 
And  I  saw  the  damsel  smile. 

Thrice  blest!     Thou  gentle  fortune 

Which  crowned  those  halcyon  hours, 
When  hand  in  hand  with  sighing  love 

Mars  sat  in  Beauty's  bowers! 
When  the  mirror  of  the  soldier 

Was  set  in  woman's  face, 
And  he  was  most  the  hero 

Who  wore  the  finest  lace. 

But  ah !   a  change  has  happened  — 

Sad,  sad  reverse  for  me ! 
I  went  unto  the  distant  war, 

Over  the  distant  sea.* 
Say,  have  I  not,  sweet  ladies, 

Just  reason  to  demur, 
For  I  draw  a  rusty  sabre, 

And  I  wear  a  rusty  spur. 

*  From  the  description  which  he  gives  of  himself,  it  is  presumed 
this  unfortunate  son  of  Mars  must  have  volunteered,  at  some  time  or 
other,  for  an  "  excursion  "  from  the  land  of  milk  and  honey  to  the 
fastnesses  of  recent  Indian  notoriety,  situated  among  the  inter 
minable  swamps  of  hostile  Florida. 


304  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

Where  are  my  dreams  of  glory  ? 

Dissolved  in  marsh  and  mire; 
Where  is  the  glittering  torch  of  fame  ? 

Gone  out  like  an  Indian's  fire. 
The  trappings  of  my  courser  ? 

Stol'n  by  the  thieving  foe ; 
And  I  ride  without  a  saddle, 

And  I  march  without  a  shoe. 

Oh  maids  of  former  hours, 

Who  blest  me  with  your  sighs, 
I  've  not  a  single  button  left 

To  glad  your  gentle   eyes  ! 
My  plume  is  in  a  cane-brake, 

A  thorn-bush  wears   my  vest, 
And  my  coat  hath  lost  its  tinsel,  — 

What  care  ye  for  the  rest  ? 

Alas !   in  search  of  glory 

How  foolish  thus  to  roam  ! 
I  '11  take  my  pack  upon  my  back 

And  steer  again  for  home  ; 
Though  doomed  at  every  window 

Some  well-known  voice  to  hear, 
"Do  but  behold  him,  sister, — 

Yon  ragged  volunteer  !  " 

CAMP  AT  SUWANEE  SPRINGS,  Florida,  1838. 


SONG  OF  THE   OKEE-FEE-NOKEE. 

[WRITTEN  in  answer  to  a  playful  banter  that  the  author  could 
not  produce  a  rhyme  to  "  Okee-fee-nokee."  In  order  to  a  correct 
understanding  of  the  subjoined  lines,  it  may  not  be  deemed  inap 
propriate  to  insert  a  note  explanatory  of  them. 

The  Okee-fee-nokee  swamp,  some  one  hundred  and  twenty  miles 
in  circuit,  situated  on  the  southern  boundary  of  Georgia,  was  a 
region  almost  wholly  unknown  until  a  late  period  of  the  Florida 
War,  when  it  was  occasionally  visited  by  parties  of  troops,  in  pur 
suit  of  the  refractory  Seminoles  who  were  concealed  in  its  almost 
inaccessible  fastnesses.  Its  borders  fringed  with  high  walls  of 
cypress,  interspersed  with  dense  shrubbery,  served  as  a  barrier  to 
exclude  its  inner  recesses  from  the  outside  world.  These  hidden 
fastnesses  could  only  be  reached  through  the  agency  of  native 
guides,  over  narrow  and  carefully  concealed  paths,  termed  trails. 

It  was  in  the  month  of  December,  1838,  that  Captain  T.  Morris, 
of  the  Second  Infantry,  by  direction  of  General  Floyd,  commanding 
the  Okee-fee-nokee  district,  accompanied  by  a  detachment  of  troops 
with  a  guide,  attempted  to  explore  this  inhospitable  region.  Enter 
ing  at  a  point  where  the  trail  presented  signs  sufficiently  distinct 
to  follow,  the  troops  for  several  miles  were  enabled  to  plod  their  way 
through  the  mazes  of  the  outer  belt  without  encountering  any  seri 
ous  obstacle  to  oppose  their  progress.  The  path,  however,  gradu 
ally  became  less  distinct,  until,  at  length,  it  was  totally  obliterated. 
Surrounded  by  impervious  thickets  they  were  obliged  to  have 
recourse  to  their  hatchets  in  order  to  extricate  themselves.  On 
emerging,  over  this  improvised  path,  from  the  surrounding  under 
wood,  they  gained  a  slight  acclivity  from  which  the  interior  of  the 
swamp  presented  a  panoramic  view  sufficiently  picturesque  to  reward 
the  adventurers  for  the  labor  attending  its  invasion. 

Stretches  of  low  land  covered  with  cypress,  undulating  knolls  of 
pine  whose  scraggy  trunks  were  encircled  by  the  morning-glory, 
20 


306  VOICES   OF   THE   BORDER. 

the  passion-flower,  the  jessamine,  and  the  climbing  clematis,  isolated 
masses  of  the  tasseled  cane,  and  impervious  thickets  studded  with 
the  gnarled  oak  and  fan-leaved  palmetto,  contrasted  with  the  gleam 
of  open  waters,  dotted  with  small  islands,  and  broad  fields  of  wav 
ing  grass  which  concealed,  beneath  a  veil  of  verdure,  the  unruffled 
but  treacherous  element  which  slept  beneath  them. 

After  pausing  for  a  while  to  notice  the  varied  elements  of  this 
wild  scenery,  the  troops  were  again  put  in  motion,  and,  guided  by 
the  compass,  pursued,  as  near  as  intervening  obstacles  would  per 
mit,  the  intended  route  ;  sometimes  cutting  their  way  through 
crowding  canes  and  the  prickly  cactus,  sometimes  creeping  upon 
their  hands  and  knees  over  a  narrow  path  —  the  trail  of  a  bear  or  an 
alligator  —  flanked  on  either  side  by  thick  underbrush  surmounted 
by  low  tangled  vines  so  closely  interlaced  that  the  possibilty  of 
assuming  an  upright  position  was  precluded  for  hours,  and  again 
wading  waist-deep,  through  the  grass  of  an  overflowed  prairie. 

Progress  along  that  portion  of  the  swamp  occupied  by  cypress- 
trees,  it  was  not  difficult  to  maintain,  so  long  as  due  care  was  man 
ifested  to  plant  the  foot  upon  one  of  the  exposed  roots  or  knees 
which  rose  in  close  contiguity  to  each  other,  but,  should  a  false  step 
be  made,  the  unfortunate  individual  would  sink  in  the  yielding  sur 
face  from  which  it  was  difficult  to  extricate  himself.  Like  care  had 
to  be  manifested  in  traversing  the  submerged  prairies  or  meadows, 
as  the  footing  was  insecure,  the  water  frequently  deepened  as  he 
advanced,  and  he  had  either  to  return,  or  shape  his  course  toward 
one  of  the  small  islands,  for  a  temporary  resting-place. 

It  was  on  the  third  day  of  the  march  that  the  troops  suddenly  en 
countered  one  of  these  prairies,  which  stretched  like  a  vast  amphi 
theatre  before  them.  As  it  was  several  miles  i'n_ circuit,  the  attempt 
was  made  to  pass  directly  over  it,  but  with  indifferent  success. 
The  water  had  gradually  deepened,  and  when  the  troops  were 
nearly  half  way  over,  it  was  found  utterly  impracticable  to  proceed 
further  in  the  required  direction.  It  had  been  raining  violently 
throughout  the  day,  and  the  men,  wet  and  weary,  were  not  in  a 
condition  to  retrace  their  steps. 

In  this  dilemma,  fortunately  for  the  command,  a  small  island  was 
discerned  at  a  short  distance  from  the  left  of  the  line.  A  solitary 
cypress,  from  the  branches  of  which  drooped  long  gray  ringlets  of 
moss,  alone  marked  its  locality,  so  little  was  the  spot  elevated  above 


INDIAN   MELODIES.  307 

the  surface  of  the  submerged  prairie.  Altering  their  course,  the 
troops  soon  reached  the  desired  haven.  The  island  was  oval  in 
shape,  of  small  dimensions,  and  carpeted  with  short  dense  green 
sward,  but,  with  the  exception  of  that  lone  denizen  of  the  swamp 
before  mentioned,  not  a  tree  nor  a  shrub  grew  upon  it. 

Weary  and  weak  and  cold,  without  the  means  of  procuring  fuel, 
but  thankful  for  a  spot  to  rest  upon,  the  men  took  possession  of  the 
premises  and  covering  themselves  with  garments  of  moss  purloined 
from  the  wardrobe  of  the  friendly  cypress",  bivouacked  there  for  the 
night.  Early  the  next  morning,  just  previous  to  the  evacution  of  the 
island,  the  troops  simultaneously  inaugurated  an  impromptu  dance, 
for  the  purpose  of  exciting  circulation  in  their  benumbed  limbs, 
which  the  coldness  of  the  night  previous  had  reduced  to  a  state  of 
semi- paralysis.  During  the  performance  of  this  "  prompt  manoeu 
vre"  (not  laid  down  in  Army  Tactics)  the  entire  structure  was  ob 
served  to  partake  of  an  oscillatory  motion,  giving  rise  to  the  belief 
that  its  foundations  were  neither  of  rock  or  sand. 

This  supposition  was  afterward  corroborated  by  an  experiment 
suggested  by  Dr.  Williams,  the  Assistant  Surgeon  of  the  detach 
ment.  A  pole,  prepared  for  the  purpose  by  cutting  a  limb  from  the 
cypress-tree  and  divesting  it  of  its  redundant  branches,  was  forced 
through  the  leafy  surface  to  the  depth  of  some  three  feet,  after 
which  no  further  obstruction  impeded  its  insertion  to  its  entire 
length. 

Judgment  thereupoiuwas  pronounced  that  the  so-called  island 
was  nothing  more  nor  less'than  a  footing  mass  of  decayed  vegeta 
ble,  matter;  and  from  its  tendency  to  shake  or  quiver,  it  received 
the  appellation  of  "  Trembling  Island."  Such  are  the  circum 
stances  which  gave  rise  to  the  name  mentioned  in  the  text,  and 
which,  also,  may  tend  to'explain  the  allusion  made  to  thb&e  other • 
spots  or  islands  "  as  yet  undiscovered  by  Morris  or  Floyd." 

It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  note  to  exhibit  further,  in  detail,  the 
varied  phases  encountered  by  the  troops  during  their  sojourn 
in  this  inhospitable  region.  It  is  deemed  sulficient  to  remark,  that 
after  leaving  the  island,  with  some  difficulty  not  unattended  with 
peril,  they  were  enabled  to  secure  sure  footing  on  an  adjacent  shore, 
where,  after  a  seven  days'  ordeal,  passed  in  the  pleasant  pastime  of 
creeping,  leaping,  and  floundering,  they  at  length  gained  terra 
firni'i  on  the  outside  border  of  the  swamp,  much  to  the  gratifica 
tion  of  the  parties  concerned.] 


308  VOICES   OF  THE  BOEDER. 

You  dare  me  to  sing  of  the  Okee-fee-nokee  — 
The  word  to  be  sure  is  uncouth  to  the  ear, 
And  yet  you  may  still  (if  the  rhymes  do  not  choke 

ye,) 

Make  ready  to  read  or  be  silent  to  hear. 

You  say  't  is  the  swamp,  sir, 

So  dismal  and*  damp,  sir, 
Whose  intricate  windings  you  wish  me  to  show, 

With  its  lake  of  the  red  man, 

And  shore  of  the  dead  man 
Who  perished  by  famine  or  fell  by  the  blow. 

Do  you  see  yonder  cypress  ?  'T  is  on  "  Trembling 

Island," 

Which  name  from  its  character  aptly  it  gets, 
Because  should  you  step  there,  supposing  it  dry  land, 
'T  is  twenty  to  one  but  your  isle  oversets. 
Like  a  ship  without  breezes, 
It  rocks  as  it  pleases, 

Sad  footing  for  marching  men,  likely  to  drown, 
And  often  they  say,  sir, 
Would  have  floated  away,  sir, 
Were  it  not  for  that  cypress,  which  anchors  it  down. 

You  've  read  of  the  stream  which  they  name  from 

St.  Mary? 

That  hummock  of  saplings  its  head-waters  know, 
And  you  've  heard  of  the  birds  of  the  famed  "  Mother 

Carey ! " 

They  feed  in   yon  cane  till  to  "  chickens "  they 
grow; 


INDIAN  MELODIES.  309 

And  the  gentle  Nautilus, 

(This  measure  will  kill  us,) 
Freights  yonder  his  bark  e'er  to  ocean  he  sails, 

While  the  rough  alligator, 

The  wonder  of  "  natur," 
Bends  hither  his  course  when  he  chances  his  scales. 

Look  now  at  the  west  where  the  day-star  is  streaming, 
Like  the  light  of  an  eye  o'er  a  scene  it  enjoyed, 
Oh,  yonder  are  spots,  in  the  far  distance  gleaming, 
As  yet  undiscovered  by  Morris  or  Floyd. 

By  the  light  of  the  sunset, 

There  ready  for  fun  set 
The  nut-cracking  squirrel  and  moss-eating  hare, 

And  blithe  'neath  the  moon-ray 

The  fox  and  the  coon  play, 
While  the  wolf  dances  round  with  the  cub  of  the  bear. 

And  there,  at  the  mention  the  bull- frog  stops  leaping. 

The  snake  seeks  its  hole,  and  the  hornet  its  hive, — 

Dwells  the  red-handed  Ghost  who  hath  kept  and  is 

keeping 

The  corse  of  the  Florida  War  still  alive ; 
And  who  laughs  every  night,  sir, 
To  see  the  sad  plight,  sir, 

Of  the  leg-weary  soldier  —  a  mud-stricken  thing  — 
Like  Araby's  Daughter,  bogged, 
Helpless,  and  water-logged, 
Oh,  't  is  of  the  Okee-fee-nokee  I  sing ! 
HUMMOCK,  OKEK-FEE-NOKEE,  February  21, 1839. 


PROMISCUOUS  POEMS. 


THE   POWERS    OF   WOMAN. 

[FRAGMENT  from  "  Ben  and  Elbert,"  an  early  poem,  written  at 
West  Point  Academy,  an  episode  from  which,  "The  Dreaming 
Boy,"  is  inserted  among  "  The  Songs  of  the  Bower."] 

A  DREAM  of  woman  !  I  have  seen  the  hour 
When  I  have  bowed  before  her  idol  shrine, 

And  worshiped,  pagan-like,  as  to  a  power 
Derived  from  Godhead,  sinless,  pure,  divine ; 

Whether  in  courtly  hall  or  secret  bower 

Mid  the  deep  grove  where  flaunting  myrtles  twine, 

Where'er  her  altar  stood,  't  was  all  the  same, 

So  it  was  blessed  by  woman's  sainted  name. 

I  've  stood  a  gazer  in  the  joyous  crowd, 

With  beauty  gathered  round,  and  light,  and  song, 

Where  the  wild  burst  of  laughter  echoed  loud, 
And  eyes  shone  out,  as  if  to  light  along 

The  reveler's  mazy  pathway  —  and  I  've  bowed 
My  knee  like  an  adorer  in  that  throng, 

And  in  the  drunkenness  of  passion  given 

Madly  to  woman  attributes  of  Heaven, 

I  learned  Love's  language  —  like  an  artist  wrought 
Upon  my  nature  till  't  was  moulded  well, 


314  VOICES   OF   THE  BORDER. 

Attuned  my  voice  melodiously,  and  sought 

O'er  ponderous  tomes  for  words  of  dulcet  swell 

To  lisp  in  meet  accordance  —  when  I  'd  fraught 
My  tongue  with  studied  phrases,  soft  to  tell, 

In  deep  recess,  with  none  but  her  to  hear, 

It  was  my  wont  to  breathe  them  in  her  ear. 

Oh,  there  was  one  whom  I  remember  well ! 

One  when  my  sorrows  like  my  years  were  few, 
With  whom,  so  strong  her  fascination's  spell, 

The  fleeting  hours  like  passing  moments  flew  ; 
Fanned  by  her  breath,  with  her  in  secret  dell, 

My  island  harp  its  inspiration  drew, 
And  ever  thus,  charmed  by. the  siren's  lure, 
"  Oh  maiden  bright,"  I  sang,  "  Oh  maiden  pure ! " 

And  did  I  love  her?  let  me  press  my  heart 
And  gain  the  answer  from  that  prompter  rare ! 

Ah  no !  it  yields  no  quick  impetuous  start, 
No  thrill  disturbs  the  equal  pulses  there ; 

When  souls  adore,  love  acts  a  silent  part ; 

I  breathed  her  name  as  I  would  breathe  a  prayer. 

Soft  murmuring,  when  she  lit  my  vision's  sky, 

"Oh,  cloud-bright  dream!  Oh,  rainbow  deity!" 

And  all  was  mockery  —  vilest  of  mockeries  — 
A  wild,  wild  vision,  maddening  as  it  mocks! 

Is  it  not  thus  ?  answer,  thou  thing  of  sighs. 
Wiles,  cunning,  treachery,  Nature's  paradox ! 

Dost  thou  not  make  of  man  a  sacrifice, 

Wind  him,  —  aye,  even  as  thou  dost  thy  locks, 


PROMISCUOUS   POEMS.  315 

To  suit  thy  fickle  purpose,  —  curdle,  rile 

His  very  heart's  blood  with  thy  haunting  smile? 

Have  I  not  listened  to  thy  oft-pledged  word 
And  proved  thee,  as  thou  art,  a  thing  of  air? 

Gathered  thee  to  my  bosom  as  a  bird 

Garners  her  brood,  and  found  a  serpent  there? 

Have  I  not  felt  the  throes  of  hope  deferred, 
Pangs,  writhing  pangs  to  which  't  were  bliss  — 
despair  — 

Which,  should  I  will  to  picture,  words  would  fail  ? 

All  this  ?  and  yet  I  love  thee  —  woman,  hail ! 

'T  is  ever  thus,  has  been,  will  be  with  man  ! 

Ambition,  wealth,  doomed  for  a  smile  to  barter ; 
The  proudest  he  who  best  can  flirt  a  fan, 

The  noblest  knight  the  "  the  order  of  the  garter ; " 
Leader  alike  of  hosts  and  woman's  van, 

In  war  a  hero,  and  in  love  a  martyr. 
What  has  steeled  heart  'gainst  heart  —  whole  king 
doms  stirred  ? 
A  breath  ?  nay,  lighter  far  —  a  woman's  word. 

What  was  the  weapon  conquered  Caesar's  foe  ? 

What  but  the  fire  from  Cleopatra's  eye ; 
What  laid  the  halls  of  haughty  Priam  low, 

The  thunderbolt  of  Jove  —  or  Helen's  sigh? 
When  was  the  hour  the  world  was  doomed  to  woe 

And  the  world's  lord  tcr  death  ?  Let  Eve  reply ! 
Woman  !  man's  keenest  scourge,  man's  kindest  nurse, 
Thou  art  his  blessing  —  and  thou  art  his  curse  ! 


THE    CALIFORNIA   TRANSPORT. 

[WRITTEN,  soon  after  the  discovery  of  gold  in  California,  on  the 
departure  of  a  transport  from  Xew  York,  containing  troops  and 
other  passengers,  destined  for  San  Francisco,  via  Capu  Horn.] 

THY  rising  streamers  kiss  the  coaxing  breeze, 

The  day  is  breaking  where  the  clouds  hung  dark, 
For  many  a  moon  thy  home  is  on  the  seas,  — 
Fill,  —  and  away,  thou  bark  ! 

Within  thy*  thick-ribbed  sides  arc  stores  of  weight; 

The  gay-robed  soldier  and  the  trader  plain 

Together  crowd  thy  deck,  —  a  motley  freight 

Of  gallantry  and  gain. 

Some  have  embarked  full  buoyant  with  the  dream 

Of  wealth  amassed  by  toil  of  diver  bold,  — 
Rich  jewels  glistening  far  'neath  crystal  stream 
Hallowed  by  legends  old. 

Tempted  are  some  by  tale  of  shining  ore 

Hid  in  the  wombs  of  far  Francisco's  land, 
Or  brighter  spots  on  Sacramento's  shore 

Sprinkled  with  golden  sand. 

Some  have  set  out  whose  roving  bosoms  burn 
.  To  feel  the  freshness  of  a  foreign  sky.  — 


PROMISCUOUS   POEMS.  317 

Of  these,  of  all,  some  shall  at  length  return,  — 
Some  have  gone  forth  to  die. 

And  they  are  with  thee,  —  thou  shall  rock  their  head 
Whose  smile  is  placid  and  whose  voice  is  mild ; 
Deal  gently  with  them  on  their  heaving  bed, 
Thou  bark  of  ocean  wild ! 

Thy  wings  shall  waft  thee  swiftly  o'er  the  stream 
Whose  constant  current  moves  by  mystic  sway ;  * 

Bright  isles  shall  greet  thee  with  their  dangerous 
•        gleam 

Upon  thy  flashing  way. 

High  on  the  coast  where  swift  Magellan's  tide 

Unites  two  oceans  —  mightiest  of  the  sphere  — 
Strange  tawny  bands  shall  pause  to  see  thee  glide 
Along  thy  proud  career. 

Thy  frame  shall  quiver  where  the  mountain  surge 

Replies  in  thunder  to  the  monsoon's  roar, 
And  the  wild  sea-fowl  screams  the  sailor's  dirge 
By  Patagonia's  shore. 

And  thou  shall  sleep  becalmed,  till  heart  shall  tire, 

Where  the  earth's  axle  shows  its  least  incline, 
While  glows  the  tropic  sun  with  equal  fire 

Along  the  burning  line. 

o  ,  o 

*  Gulf  Stream. 


818  VOICES   OF   THE   BORDER. 

Yes !   waves   shall  lift    thee    and  wild  winds  shall 

sweep  ; 

And  Ocean's  monsters  flash  across  thy  way ; 
Yet  thou  shalt  cope  undaunted  with  the  deep,  — 
A  wrestler  stern  at  play. 

Then  onward !  over  the  majestic  seas ! 

The  day  is  breaking  where  the  clouds  hung  dark, 
Columbia's  banner  flutters  on  the  breeze,  — 
Fill,  —  and  away,  thou  bark  ! 


THE   BRIDE'S   LAST   SLEEP. 

SHE  died  as  dies  the  beam  of  day 

Along  a  gem  of  cost ; 
Life's  glorious  ray  —  all  quenched  it  lay  — 

Alas  !   the  loved  and  lost ! 

She  died  as  dies  the  passion-flower 
Transferred  to  climes  of  strife  ; 

Nurtured  in  warm  and  genial  bower, 
Who  could  expect  its  life  ? 

She  died  as  dies  some  plaintive  turn 

In  dreams  of  music's  strain  ; 
The  ear  may  list,  —  the  heart  may  yearn,  — 

It  ne'er  comes  back  again. 

She  died  as  dies  Eve's  roseate  light 

Far  o'er  the  billows  dim ; 
One  look  —  and  melting  into  night 

Her  smile  went  down  on  Mm. 

She  died  ?  no,  no,  though  mortal  eye 
Might  seem  such  change  to  see, 

o  o 

She  could  not  die!  in  yonder  sky 
She  lives  —  and  lives  for  thee. 


CHANGE. 

CHANGE,  't  is  penciled  in  hues  of  light 

On  all  which  the  eye  can  view ! 
'Tis  stamped  on  the  silver  brow  of  night, 

On  the  crest  of  the  morning  blue, 
On  the  golden  cloud  in  the  sunset  west, 

On  the  bo\v  which  spans  the  lea ; 
There's   a   change   for  the  worst  or  a  change  for 
the  best 

For  each  and  all  but  me. 

A  voice  of  change  for  the  hunter's  ear ! 

'Tis  heard  in  the  hound's  deep  bay; 
The  warrior  too  that  tone  may  hear, 

It  rings  in  the  trumpet's  bray. 
A  voice  of  change  on  the  autumn  air 

To  the  bird  of  pinion  free, 
To  the  forest,  the  brook,  the  glen,  —  but  where 

Is  a  voice  of  change  for  me  ? 

A  sound  of  change  for  the  placid  deep ! 

It  swells  on  the  tempest's  roar ; 
For  the  sailor's  bride  in  her  lonely  sleep, 

It  chants  from  the  wreck-strewn  shore. 


PROMISCUOUS   POEMS.  321 

The  breathing  lute  and  the  sounding  hall, 
The  blossom  which   scents  the  tree, 

There  's  a  change  for  each  and  a  change  for  all,  — 
But  where  is  a  change  for  me  ? 

Give  me  the  meed  of  the  bosom's  dread, 

To  cope  with  the  flashing  spear ! 
To  weep  unsoothed  by  the  voiceless  dead  ! 

To  watch  by  the  midnight  bier ! 
Give  me  the  laugh  of  reckless  mirth, 

Though  hollow  and  wild  it  be  ! 
A  dirge  to  moan  o'er  a  desolate  hearth, 

So  thou  bring  change  to  me ! 

21 


THE    CONDEMNED    CHRISTIAN. 

THE     ARENA. 

[A  POUTAL  of  the  arena  opened  and  the  combatant,  with  a 
mantle  thrown  over  his  face  and  iigure,  was  led  in  surrounded  by 
soldiery.  The  lion  ramped  and  roared  against  the  bars  of  its  den. 
At  this  sight  the  guard  put  a  sword  and  buckler  into  the  hands  of 
the  Christian,  and  he  was  left  alone.  —  SALATHIKL.] 

1. 

WILD  swelled  the  shout,  and  high 

Flourished  the  trumpet's  tone ; 
The  arches  answered  the  vassal  cry, 
Plume  and  purple  came  floating  by, 

And  the  King  was  on  his  throne. 

ii. 
Around  the  regal  chair 

There  were  brows  with  garlands  dressed, 
Some,  never  dimmed  by  a  thought  of  care, 
Shadowed  alone  by  their  sun-bright  hair, 

Some  that  the  helmet  pressed. 


Again   to  the  welkin  wide 
Sounded  a  blast  of  fear, 


PROMISCUOUS   POEMS.  323 

Slowly  the  columns  wheeled  aside, 
And  the  victim  was  seen,  with  his  bonds  untied, 
Leaning  upon  his  spear. 

IV. 

"  Have  ye  gone  ?   Have  ye  all  out  passed  ?  " 

'T  was  a  herald's  warning  tone  ; 
One  plume  yet  fluttered  in  the  blast, 
It  stooped,  it  vanished,  't  was  the  last,  — 

And  the  Christian  stood  alone. 

v. 
Now  gird  thee  for  the  fight, 

Thou  of  the  fearless  band ! 
Thine  arm  must  cope  with  a  foe  of  might, 
No  human  feet,  save  thine,  to-night 

May  tread  the  arena's   sand. 

VI. 

He  raised  his  eyes  on   high, 

And  breathed  a  hurried   prayer, 
The  earthly  monarch  bade  him  die, 
But  he  knew,  as  he  scanned  that  holy  sky, 

A  mightier  King  was  there. 


Watch  ye  that  captive  slave, 

Prince  of  a  royal  line  ? 
Give  but  thy  sceptre's  slightest  wave, 
And  a  thousand  spears  will  flash  to  save ! 

But  the  monarch  made  no  sign. 


324  VOICES   OF   THE   BORDER. 

VIII. 
Then  blushing  cheeks  grew  pale, 

And  mid  that  bright  array 
Love  whispered  an  unheeded  tale, 
And  the  Roman  maid  withdrew  her  veil, 

Unconscious  of  display. 


Aye  !   silence  reigned  around  ! 

And  there  burst  a  hollow  roar, 
And  the  arches  echoed  the  thrilling  sound, 
As  a  lion  loosed,  with  a  sudden  bound, 

Leaped  from  his  grated  door. 

x. 

Crouching  with  slow  advance, 

He  rears  his  bristling  mane  ; 
He  hath  measured  his  foe  with  a  flaming  glance, 
He  springs!  — and  the  captive's  shining  lance 

Weareth  a  crimson  stain  ! 

XI. 

"  Huzza !  "  so  swelled  the  song, 

"  For  the  lord  of  the  lance  and  lair  !  " 
And  the  arches  shook  with  the  plaudits  strong, 
And  the  King  passed  out  from  the  cheering  throng. 
For  he  feared  the  God  of  prayer. 


THE   OCEAN. 

How  fair  the  main  as,  bathed  in  crimson  dye, 
The  weary  billow  seeks  the  sunset  isle, 

Its  rage  forgetting  'neath   that  placid  sky, 
As  if  't  were  bound  beneath  a  siren's   wile ! 

Like  man's  dark  mind  full  oft  where  tempests  lie, 
Till     soothed    to    peace    by    woman's     twilight 
smile. 

Where  is  thy  child,  the  Storm-king,  placid  deep  ? 

Amid  thy  coral  caverns  doth  he  sleep  ? 

My  gaze  is  on  thee !    earnestly  I  stand, 

Watching  thy  waves'  alternate  ebb  and  flow ; 

Gently  I  feel  my  burning  forehead  fanned 

With  breezes  light  which  o'er  thy  surface  blow ; 

How  sweet  the  thoughts  of  home  which,  far  from 

land, 
In  yonder  bark  the  wanderers  .must  know  ! 

That  bark  upon  thy  bosom  seems  to  rest, 

Calm  as  an  infant  on  its  mother's  breast. 

Of  far,  far  bowers  where  climbs  the  clasping  vine, 
And  many  a  perfume  breathes  —  thou  art  the 
token ; 

Thou  call'st  to  mind  the  land  of  mirth  and  wine, 
As  if  a  voice  from  Eastern  groves  had  spoken. 


326  VOICES   OF  THE  BOEDER. 

Climes  I  have  left  ne'er  more  to  call  them  mine ; 
The  minstrel  boy  still  loves  his  lute,  though 

broken, 

For  the  remembered  strains  which  once  it  gave  — 
And  thus  thou  art  to  me, —  sleep  on,  bright  wave! 

There  is  a  sound  of  waters  on  mine  ear ! 

The  Spirit  of  the  tempest  claims  the  lea ; 
The  loud,  wild  lashing  of  the  surge  I  hear,  — 

The  mountain-crest  of  foamy  waves  I  see. 
Hush,  hush,  thy  roaring,  —  is  the  mother's  tear 

Shed  for  her  sailor-boy,  but  naught  to  thee  ? 
Nay  more,  the  fair-haired  bride  is  on  the  main,  — 
Cease,  cease  thy  rising !    Ocean,  sleep  again. 

Aye !   hush  thy  roaring !  —  and  a  prouder  swell 
As  if  in  mockery  burst  on  the  shore, 

Another,  and  .another,  —  ha !    that  yell ! 

'T  is  swelling  yet,  —  while  with  a  deeper  roar 

The  surging  billow  chimed  an  answering  knell, 
As  if  the  sea-dog  at  old  Ocean's  door, 

Watching  for  victims  in  his  coral  hall, 

Knew   't  was     the    voice    of    man  —  that    frenzied 
call  ! 

Yea !  't  was  the  wildering  shriek  of  mortals  where 
The  elements  together  madly  strove  ; 

The  proud  of  heart,  the  strong  in  arm  were  there, 
And  lips  but  formed  for  breathing  vows  of 
love,  — 


PROMISCUOUS  POEMS.  327 

All,  all,  from  the  rough  tars  who  nobly  dare, 

Unshrinking  o'er  the  shattered  deck  to  rove, 
To  the  fair  'girl  who  lisped  in  accents  mild,  — 
Oh  !  these  are  not  thy  victims,  Ocean  wild  ! 

Onward  and  onward  bounding,  "  like  a  thing 
Of  life,"  that  gallant  bark  still  held  its  way. 

As  on  still  moves  the  eagle  though  his  wing, 
Broken,  no  more  upon  the  breeze  may  play. 

While  the  frail    maiden  to  the  mast  did  cling, 
With  her  white  cheek  washed  by  the  breaker's 
spray  ; 

Onward  and  onward  bounding  dashed  the  bark ! 

The  sea  birds    wheeled  —  the   billows   grew  more 
dark. 

A  voice  came  o'er  the  waters,  and  it  rung 
Wildly  —  O  God !  how  wildly  —  on  the  air 

White  drapery  streamed  which  whiter   hands   had 

flung, 
And  tresses  unconfined  were  floating  there. 

Upon  a  mountain  surge  the  life-bark  hung  — 
A  moment  paused  and  then  descended  —  where!' 

There's  death  mid  thy  receptacles,  —  the  brave, 

The  beautiful  aie  thine,  —  roll  on,  dark  wave! 


DESULTORY   RHYMES.* 

LADIES  and  gentlemen,  all  who  assemble  here, 

Pretty  and  witty  and  sprightly  and  gay, 
Too  kind  to  be  cruel,  too  plain  to  dissemble  here, 
Pause  for  a  moment  and  list  to  my  lay. 
What  shall  I  say  to  you, 
So  I  can  play  to  you, 
All  in  a  way  to  you 
Pleasing  to  hear  ? 
My  lute,  ye  may  like  it  not, 
But  if  I  strike  it  not 
How  may  its  music  be  judged  by  your  ear? 

Gathered  ye  are  from  all  parts  of  the  town  to-night, 
In  spite  of  the  cloud  which  grew  heavy  with  snow, 
Skies  may  have  tempests  but  may  not  a  frown  to-night 
Shade  for  one  moment  the  light  of  a  brow. 
Feasts  intellectual, 
Without  being  sexual, 
Are  surely  effectual, 
To  drive  away  care. 

*  Sent  incog,  to  a  Society  in  Providence,  R.  I.,  composed  princi 
pally  of  young  ladies,  who  were  made,  erroneously,  to  suppose  the 
author  was  one  of  their  own  number. 


PROMISCUOUS   POEMS.  329 

Whatever  they  set  me  to, 
None  shall  e'er  get  me  to 
Give  up  the  pleasure  this  evening  I  share. 

Faces  there  are  which  are  fit  for  a  painter  here, 
Some  with  the  furrow  which  sadness  hath  worn. 
Some  like  the  rose-leaf,  and  some  of  hues  fainter 

here, 
And  some  like  the  lily,  which  shrinks  from  the 

morn. 

But,  ladies,  your  faces, 
Whatever  their  graces, 
It  sure  not  my  place  is 
To  rhyme  upon  now ; 
Lest  you  find  it  unpleasant, 
And  it  call  from  some  present 
A  tear  to  the  cheek  or  a  blush  to  the  brow. 

What  amusement  more  chaste,  which  should  one  be 

inclined  to, 

Than  list'ning  to  thoughts  which  are  aptly  conveyed 
In  prose  or  in  verse  if,  like  me,  you  've  a  mind  to 
Bow  down  and  invoke  the  bewildering  maid. 
This,  ladies,  oh  this  is, 
To  Mothers  and  Misses, 
The  sweetest  of  blisses 
Which  letters  e'er  gave ; 
But  pleasure  is  fleeting, 
Remember,  and  cheating, 

As  Time  "  slowly  beats   the  dead   march  to   the 
grave." 


330  VOICES   OF   THE  BORDER. 

And   now   from   your    numbers    I   know   that    you 

single  me, 

My  name  and  my  nature  is   bandied  about, 
But  round  your  bright  circle  though  much  ye  may 

gingle  me, 
I  smile  at  the  thought  that  you'll  ne'er  find  me 

out. 

Lips  ye  may  whisper, 
And  tongues  ye  may  lisp  her, 
But  harder  and  crisper 
The  task  is  to  do ; 
Like  an  over-done  pie-crust, 
The  more  that  you  try  must 
Appear  the  objection  to  biting  it  through. 


CAROLINE   OF    ENGLAND. 

[Ix  was  said  at  the  coronation  of  George  the  Fourth,  that  the 
royal  Caroline  applied  for  admission  to  Westminster  Abbey  while 
the  ceremony  was  taking  place,  but  was  forbidden  to  enter.] 

DEEP  be  thy  rest,  fair  daughter 
Of  Brunswick's  haughty  line, 

A  star  o'er  Albion's  water 
Hath  set  no  more  to  shine ! 

Why  gave  thy  lord  to  story 

The  faults  that  Fame  should  screen, 

Oh,  bride  of  regal  glory, 
Consort — yet  not  a  queen? 

They  who  had  fawned  and  flattered 

In  worship  at  thy  shrine, 
How  soon  like  leaves  were  scattered. 

When  fortune  ceased  to  shine  ! 

Betrothed  and  yet  forsaken. 

Supreme  and  but  a  slave, 
Heiress  of  claims  unshaken, 

Yet  a  wanderer  of  the  wave  ! 


332  VOICES   OF   THE  BORDER. 

A  gorgeous  crowd  was  kneeling 
Beside  a  monarch's  chair, 

While  the  deep  anthem  pealing 
Rolled  on  the  scented  air. 

He  sat  mid  vaults  resounding, 
With  the  crown  upon  his  brow. 

Princes  and  peers  surrounding  — 
But  where,  oh  !  where  wert  thou  ? 

Not  where  the  right-arm  wielded 
The  sceptre  and  the  sword, 

His  arm,  which  should  have  shielded 
Her  who  had  called  him  lord. 

But  sick  at  heart  and  slighted. 
Out  from  the  glittering  ring, 

Alone,  with  grief  benighted, 
She  stood  a  banished  thing. 

Amid  that  pomp  and  splendor 

Of  Britain's  regal  day, 
Was  there  no  voice  to  render 

Homage  to  one  away? 

Mid  the  bright  forms  which  glistened 

Along  the  Minster  hall. 
Was  there  no  ear  that  listened 

To  catch  its  mistress'  call  ? 


PROMISCUOUS   POEMS.  333 

Alas  the  hour !  unfriended. 

By  jealous  tongues  belied, 
Not  one  poor  hand  extended 

To  hail  a  monarch's  bride. 

Weary  and  weak  and  pitied, 

Even  in  her  robes  of  state, 
She  came  —  and  unadmitted 

Stood  at  the  Minster  gate. 

Bride  sovereign,  though  forsaken, 

Proud  partner  of  a  throne, 
Heiress  of  claims  unshaken, 

She  turned  and  wept  alone. 

Where  then  was  knighthood  sleeping? 

Shame  to  the  belt  and  spur ! 
That  a  thousands  brands  outleaping 

Flashed  not  for  Fame  and  her. 

How  may  it  read  in  story 

That  the  blades  of  broidered  sheen, 
Which  struck  for  England's  glory, 

Struck  not  for  England's  queen? 

Then  should  the  tocsin  sounding 
Have  rung  in  the  pillared  hall, 

While  martial  shouts,  rebounding, 
Echoed  from  dome  to  wall. 


834  VOICES   OF   THE  BORDER. 

Then  should  the  reel  cross  gleaming, 
Have  soared  mid  bayonets  brown, 

From  British  banners  streaming 
To  right  a  British  crown ; 

Telling  what  doom  awaited 
The  lip  that  dared  defame, 

With  tale  by  lust  created, 
A  sovereign's  regal   name. 

Deep  be  thy  rest,  fair  daughter 
Of  Brunswick's  haughty  line! 
A  star  o'er  Albion's  water 

Hath  set  no  more  to  shine. 
1838. 


THE   HYMN   OF   DEATH. 

I  AM  a  monarch  !    flower  and  tree 
And  earth  and  living  thing  — 

Each,  all  are  mine  !    Bow  down  to  me ! 
I  am  your  priest  and  king. 

No  mark  is  proof,  avails  no  flight, 

Against  my  seasoned  bow ; 
I  aim  at  youth  with  its  footstep  light, 

And  age  with  its  locks  of  snow. 

I  seek  mid  forms  of  glittering  pride 
For  the  tone  of  laughter  loud, 

And  it  is  my  wont  to  steal  aside 
The  loveliest  of  the  crowd. 

Unto  the  couch  of  soft  repose 

With  stealthy  tread  I  stray, 
And  I  pause  beside  the  lip  of  rose, 

And  kiss  its  smile  away. 

I  weave  athwart  the  warrior's  bed 

The  mantles  of  the  slain, 
And  I  dye  the  thread  with  hues  of  red, 

As  the  battle  sweeps  the  plain. 


336  VOICES   OF   THE  BORDER. 

I  ride  upon  the  tempest  dark, 

When  the  storm  is  on  the  lea, 
Watching  the  sailor's  quivering  bark, 

As  it  breasts  the  surging  sea. 

It  is  my  warning  voice  ye  hear, 

When  the  thunder  mutters  low  ; 
I  flash  afar  my  levin-spear, 

And  ye  see  the  lightning's  glow. 

I  am  a  monarch !    flower  and    tree 

And  earth  and  living  thing  — 
Each,  all  are  mine  !     Bow  down  to  me  ! 

I  am  your  priest   and   king. 

Ye  may  bar  the  gates  of  the  Temple's  wall, 
Yet  I  stand  in  your  aisles  of  prayer ; 

Ye  may  crown  your  chief  in  the  crowded  hall, 
Yet  I  reign  as  your  sovereign   there. 

Give  way  !    I  pass  through  your  ranks  of  mirth, 

Pause  with  the  festal  breath  ! 
I  am  the  lord  of  all  the  earth,  — 

I  am  the  conqueror  —  Death  ! 


THE   IMP   OF   THE    PALACE* 

WRITTEN   SOON  AFT1CR  THE   CORONATION  OF   VICTORIA. 

[''  EDWARD  COTTON,  a  boy  about  thirteen  years  of  age,  was  on 
Friday  brought  before  the  magistrates  of  Queen's  Square  police- 
office,  charged  with  being  found  concealed  in  the  New  Palace. 
He  said  he  had  been  twelve  months  in  the  palace  and  had  seen 
and  heard  the  Queen  speak  at  all  hours,  both  to  her  Ministers  and 
her  attendants."]  —  OLD  COUNTRYMAN. 

SUNSET  like  Hope  is  fading  fast, 

Both  seem  to  shun  my  prison   cell, 
While  'gainst  the  lattice  beats  the  blast, 

O 

Seeming  to  sound  my  funeral  knell ; 
All  Nature  frowns,  but  what  care  I  ? 
For  her  I  lived,  for  her  can  die. 

I  may  not  bide  this  lonely  grief- 
There  is  such  anguish  on  my  brain, 

That  I  have  listened,  for  relief, 
To  hear  the  clanking  of  the  chain 

Which  bars  the  door  that  shuts  from  me 

All  that  I  ever  wished  to  see. 

My  hand  is  small  and  I  can  slide 

The  iron  from  my  wrist  at  will, 
And  in  some  darkened  nook  might  hide, 

Secure  from  all  my  keepers  still ; 

22 


338  VOICES   OF  THE  BORDER. 

Had  I  but  strength  (as  these  I  shake) 
The  fetters  of  my  heart  to  break. 

They  tell  me  I  'm  a  simple  youth, 

And  some,  they  say,  believe  me  mud ; 

I  know  not  wherefore,  save   in   truth 
I  'm  but  a  poor  unfriended  lad, 

Whose  crime  it  was,  a  spright  unseen, 

To  haunt  the  chamber  of  my  queen. 

I  oft  had  heard  it  whispered  round 
That  she  was  like  an  angel  fair ; 

But  on  the  day  I  saw  her  crowned, 

The  regal  cheek  seemed  pale  with  care  ; 

And  I  did  long,  from  pomp  aside, 

To  view  again  the  nation's  bride. 

And  so  I  hid  where  in  her  bower 
She  sat  remote  beyond  the  throng  ; 

But  oh   that  glance !  it  left  no  power 
For  after  choice  of  right  or  wrong,  — 

It  was  so  sweet  to  watch  unseen, 

7 

And  breathe  and  be  where  she  had  been ; 

Where  she  had  paused  awhile  to  stand, 
And  muse  along  the  scented  way  ! 

For  this  ye  load  with  chains  my  hand, 
And  wrest  me  from  the  light  of  day. 

But  there  's  a  light  of  memory  left, 

Of  which  I  may  not  be   bereft. 


PROMISCUOUS  POEMS.  339 

I've  seen  the  idol  of  the  throne, 

As  few  have  seen,  in  smiles  and  tears, 

And  when  no  other  eye,  my  own 

Watched  o'er  a  form  my  heart  reveres. 

Whate'er  my  doom,  this  thought  of  joy 

Still  cheers  Victoria's  vassal  boy. 


SONG  OF  THE   SEA. 

MY  home  is  on  the  heaving  sea, 

Beyond  the  breakers'  roar, 
And  I  never  hear  of  danger  near, 

Save  when  I  see  the  shore. 
My  life  is  like  a  flashing  car, 

And  like  a  merry  stave, 
For  I  whirl  along  the  deep  —  huzza  ! — 

And  I  dance  upon    the  wave. 

Amid  the  calm,  without  a  care 

For  aught  that  earth  can  bring, 
Wide-rocking  in  the  idle  air, 

I  sit  aloft  and  sing. 
And  when  the  squall  booms  fierce  and  far, 

Regardless  of  the  gale, 
I  climb  the  slippery  shroud  —  huzza !  — 

And  I  bend  the  bellowing  sail. 

The  woodland  note  is  sweet  to  hear 

And  soft  the  hum  of  hives  ; 
But  there 's  no  music  to  my  ear 

Like  that  which  Ocean  gives 
When  speeds  our  bark,  with  every  spar 

Taut  strained  her  flight  to  urge, 


PROMISCUOUS   POEMS.  341 

Mid  rattling  tramp  and  wild  huzza, 
We  breast  the  battling  surge. 

They  say  the  landsman's  bosom  thrills 

With  deeper  joy  than  ours, 
That  glory  crowns  the  sunset  hills, 

And  fragrance  scents  the  bowers  ; 
But  off !   stretch  seaward  from  the  bar ! 

Spread  out  the  canvas  free,  — 
And  should  he  hail,  cry  back  —  "  Huzza  ! 

Our  home  is  on  the   sea  ! " 


THE  NEGLECTED  OPPORTUNITY; 

OR,  THE  VISIT   OF  FORTUNE. 

WEAEY  with  play  a  gentle  boy 

Laid  down  awhile  to  rest, 
When  Fortune  came  with  gifts  of  joy, 

And  bade  him  choose  the  best. 
"  But  heed  thee,  child,  choose  once  and  well, 

I  move  by  wizard  time, — 
A  moment,  and  I  weave  my  spell 

Far  in  another  clime  !  " 

Light  in  the  urchin's  glances  burned, 

And  gladness  overmuch, 
As  one  by  one  each  toy  he  turned 

Beneath  his  curious  touch  ; 
Now  this  contents  his  changing  will, 

Now  that  his  eyes  pursue, 
Pleased  he  retains  the  one  —  until 

Another  charms  his  view. 

But  as  the  youth  the  glittering  store 

Surveyed  in  doubt  profound, 
The  mystic  wand  which  Fortune  bore 

Dialed  the  moment  round. 


PROMISCUOUS  POEMS.  343 

True  to  the  time,  the  maid  of  Fate 

Fled  with  her  gifts  of  cost, 
And  left  the  boy,  to  mourn,  too  late, 

The  prize  forever  lost. 

Oh  ye  of  manhood's  pondering  dreams, 

Whose  pulses  bound  with  health, 
Waste  not  your  hours  o'er  idle  schemes 

Of  speculating  wealth  ! 
The  course  your  mind  first  turned  to  choose, 

Pursue  with  steady  aim, 
And  ye  shall  win  when  others  lose 

At  Fortune's  fickle  game. 


IN   MEMORIAM. 

[ON  the  occasion  of  the  performance  of  the  Burial  Service,  ac 
cording  to  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Church,  over  the  remains  of 
Francis  T.  Lyon  and  Mary  his  wife,  both  of  whom  lost  their  lives 
by  an  accident  occurring  to  the  steamer  St.  John,  on  her  trip  from 
Albany  to  New  York,  October,  1865. 

A  day  or  two  only  had  passed  after  the  celebration  of  their  mar 
riage,  when  the  remains  of  this  unfortunate  pair,  wrapped  in  their 
wedding-clothes,  were  conveyed  again  from  the  bridal  church,  to 
repose  calmly  in  the  tomb  until  the  last  trump  should  awaken 
them  in  another  and  a  better  world.] 

LAY  them  gently  side  by  side, 

Bow  the  head  and  bend  the  knee, 

Let  them,  both  in  life  allied, 
Still  in  death  united  be  ! 

At  the  altar's  shrine  they  gave, 
'T  was  but  yesterday,  the  vow, 

Earthly  binding  to  the  grave,  — 
Let  that  grave  receive  them  now ! 

Lowly,  slowly  place  them  here, 
Closely  coffined  breast  to  breast ; 

Bride  and  bridegroom  ever  near, — 
What  can  harm  their  future  rest  ? 


PROMISCUOUS   POEMS.  345 

Where  the  billows  roll  and  rock, 
Never  more  shall  rush  of  steam, 

Nor  the  rail-king's  thunder  shock 
Come  to  break  their  placid  dream. 

Star  of  hope  eclipsed  in  night ! 

Lamp  of  love  gone  out  in  gloom  ! 
Lit  by  Heaven's  Promethean  light, 

Ye  shall  shine  beyond  the  tomb. 

Lay  them  gently  side  by  side, 

Bow  the  head  and  bend  the  knee, 

Let  them,  both  in  life  allied, 
Still  in  death  united  be  ! 


THE   WINTRY    WRECK. 

ALL  night  along  the  restless  sea 

Was  heard  the  minute-gun, 
Wrhere  broke  upon  the  rocky  lea 

The  billows  one  by  one. 
Full  many  a  heart  with  fear  misgave, 

And  many  a  cheek  grew  pale, 
As  wilder  dashed  the  roaring  wave, 

And  louder  shrieked  the  gale. 

Oh  !  well  might  quake  the  landsman's  form. 

Tears  flood  the  landsman's  eyes, 
When,  mingled  with  the  hurtling  storm, 

Came  sounds  of  human  cries. 
The  wintry  shore  rose  cold  and  steep 

Beneath  the  starlight  ray, 
While,  far  beyond,  upon  the  deep 

A  bark  dismantled  lay. 

As  rose  the  sun  with  flame  of  light, 
But  not  with  warmth  of  flame, 

His  buried  rays  disclosed  a  sight 
Which  Pity  weeps  to  name. 


PROMISCUOUS   POEMS.  347 

From  deck  and  shroud  and  icy  mast, 

Mid  ocean's  briny  rain, 
Hands  were  outstretched  upon  the  blast, 

Waving  for  help  in  vain. 

Fathers  stood  forth  with  nerves  of  might ; 

Mothers  —  alas  for  them  ! 
And  ah !  the  maid  whose  hair  was  bright 

With  ocean's  frozen  gem ! 
The  strong  grew  weak  within  that  ship  ; 

Strangely  the  weak  grew  strong ; 
And  they  were  there  whose  rosy  lip 

Would  breathe  no  more  of  song. 

In  lifelike  posture  some  reclined, 

A  stark,  stiff,  marble  form, 
No  more  to  hear  the  warring  wind, 

Nor  feel  the  ruthless  storm ; 
While,  side  by  side, — just  as  they  died, — 

Clasped  in  each  other's  fold. 
In  life,  in  death,  the  same  allied, 

Some  slept,  serene  and  cold. 

But  ho  !  joy,  joy  !  the  life-boat  comes  ! 

Bear  up,  ye  few  who  can ! 
Rouse  for  the  rescue  as  with  drums, — 

Battle  as  man  with  man  ! 
And  they  were  rescued,  who  outbraved 

That  night  of  fearful  cost : 
Smiles  and  kind  greetings  for  the  saved! 

Tears  for  the  loved  and  lost! 


GOING  HOME. 

[AN  affecting  incident  is  said  to  have  occurred  on  board  the 
Reindeer,  a  steamer  plying  between  Albany  and  New  York,  soon 
after  an  explosion  which  involved  great  destruction  of  life  in  that 
ill-fated  transport.  A  little  girl,  five  or  six  years  of  age,  was  laid 
alongside  of  her  mother,  whose  spirit  was  passing  in  an  agony  of 
pain  from  its  earthly  tenement.  Turning  her  eyes  toward  her 
mother  she  said,  "  Mamma,  it  is  getting  so  dark  —  will  we  not  be 
home  soon?  "  It  was  but  a  moment  after  this  touching  expression, 
that  the  film  was  lifted  from  the  eyes  of  the  little  sufferer  and  she 
did  go  home.  She  was  borne  on  the  wings  of  angels  to  the  bosom 
of  Him  who  said,  "  Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me."] 

THEY  laid  her  by  her  parent's  side, 
Where  she  had  asked  to  come  ; 

"  Mamma  !  it  is  so  dark,"  she  cried, 
"  Will  we  not  soon  be  home  ? " 

And  did  the  birdling  deem  't  was  night 

When  still  the   sun  was  high  ? 
And  did  her  bosom  feel  affright, 

While  mother  yet  was  nigh  ? 

Ah !   what  henceforth  was  parent  dear, 

Or  day  that  brightly  shone ! 
For  her  no  more  was  sunbeam   here, 

No  more  was  mother's  tone. 


PROMISCUOUS   POEMS. 


349 


But  't  was  not  long,  mid  shadows  gray, 
The  blind  one  had  to  roam  ; 

An  angel  met  the  lamb  astray, 
And  led  the  wanderer  "home" 


THE   MERRY  SLEIGH. 

JINGLE  !  jingle  !   clear  the  way, 
'T  is  the  merry,  merry  sleigh  ! 
As  it  swiftly  scuds  along, 
Hear  the  burst  of  happy  song  ; 
See  the  gleam  of  glances  bright 
Flashing  o'er  the  pathway  white  : 
Jingle  !  jingle  !   how  it  whirls, 
Crowded  full  of  laughing  girls ! 

Jingle  !  jingle  !   fast  it  flies, 
Raining  shafts  from  hooded  eyes, 
Roguish  archers,  I  '11  be  bound, 
Little  minding  whom   they  wound. 
See  them  with  capricious  pranks, 
Plowing  now  the  drifted  banks : 
Jingle  !  jingle  !   mid  their  glee, 
Who  among  them  cares  for  me  ? 

Jingle  !  jingle  !   on  they  go, 
Capes  and  bonnets  white  with  snow, 
At  the  faces  gliding  past, 
Nodding  through  the  fleecy  blast ; 
Not  a  single  robe  they  fold, 
To  protect  them  from  the  cold  : 


PROMISCUOUS  POEMS.  351 

Jingle  !  jingle  !   mid  the  storm, 
Fun  and  frolic  keep  them  warm. 

Jingle  !  jingle  !   down  the  hills  — 
O'er  the  meadows  —  past  the  mills  — 
Now  'tis  slow,  and  now  'tis  fast, 
Winter  will  not  always  last  ! 
Every  pleasure  has  its  time, 
Spring  will  come  and  stop  the  chime : 
Jingle  !  jingle !   clear  the  way, 
'T  is  the  merry,  merry  sleigh ! 


THE    LOVER'S    LEASE. 

A  HEAIIT  to  let !    a   heart  to  let ! 

Who  bids?    who  wants  to  hire  ? 
A  heart  which,  should  your  own  forget, 

Will  not  with  grief  expire. 
I  do  not  boast  its  value  much ; 

'T  is  filled  with  vagaries  vain, 
And,  schooled  beneath  a  practiced  touch, 

Breathes  back  a  practiced  strain. 

Subject  to  change,  as  torrid  climes, 

'T  is  fond  of  you  —  or  you  ; 
But  then  'twill  suit  these  business  times 

As  well  as  one  more  true. 
The  cheapest  chance  you  '11  find  by  far ; 

I  '11  lease  it  "  less  than  cost,"  — 
Since  constancy  is  "  under  par," 

And  love  is  "labor  lost." 

A  heart !    come,  bid !   be  not  afraid, 

'Tis  quite  a  pleasing  toy, 
And  just  the  thing  for  idle   maid 

Who  wants  an  hour's  employ. 


PROMISCUOUS  POEMS.  353 

A  bargain  is  this  heart  of  song : 

Bid  loud  —  how  much  ?   bid  fast ; 
The  lease  is  just  one  fortnight  long  — 

Love  swears  till  then  'twill  last. 

Ding  !   dong !   I   cry  a  heart  to  hire, 

Almost  as  "  good  as  new ; " 
If  after  fourteen  days  you   tire, 

'T  will  care  not  if  you  do. 
But  warranted  till  then  —  no  more  — 

Else  't  would  the  world  amaze  : 
Ding !   dong !   who  '11  take  this  heart  in  store 

For  only  fourteen  days  ? 


THE   LOST   CREED. 

"  I  love  but  only  you." 

LOVE  only  you  ?     'T  is  asking  more, 

Believe  me  as  I  live, 
Than  Constancy  has  got  in   store, 

Or  Faith  knows  how  to  give. 
The  daisy  fair,  the  tulip  tall, 

The  lily  bright  with  dew, — 
What !   slight  the  whole,  —  rose,  pink,  and  all, 

And  love  but  only  you? 

As  fables  say,  in  days  of  yore, 

When  Love  with  Beauty  strayed, 
The  maid  believed  the  vows  he  swore, 

The  youth  believed  the  maid ; 
But  neither  now  the  book  can  find 

From  which  fond  trust  they  drew, 
And  both  have  lost  from  heart  and  mind 

The  creed  "I  love  but  you." 

Of  houri  hearts,  an  hundred  score 

Are  in  the  Moslem  heaven ; 
The  priest  had  never  less  than  four, 

The  prophet  less  than  seven ; 


PROMISCUOUS   POEMS.  355 

When  but  for  one  the  patriarch  prayed, 

Kind  fate  assigned  him  two : 
I  'd  be  afraid,  my  charming  maid, 

To  love  but  only  you. 

"  Still,  only  you  ?  "   "Was  ever  man 

Perplexed  like  this  before  ? 
By  Jove  !   I  '11  love  you  all  I  can  — 

And  who  could  promise  more  ? 
I  '11  call  you  mine  —  dove,  dear,  divine ; 

But,  honor  bright  and  true, 
I  do  declare  I  dare  not  swear 

To  love  but  "only  you." 


LOVE'S   PERFIDY. 

WE  meet  no  more  together ; 

Yet  do  not  think  it  strange, 
Since  Fortune's  fickle  weather 

Is  always  fraught  with  change. 
The  mists  which  break  at  morning 

Are  governed  by  no  laws, 
And  so  both  you  and  I,  my  girl, 

May  part  without  a  cause. 

If  once  I  had  the  notion 

Love's  wound  could  never  heal, 
Such  foolish,  fond  devotion 

No  longer  now  I  feel ; 
Since  you  have  taught  that  passion 

Is  quite  a  thing  of  art, 
I  feel  that  I  've  become,  my  girl, 

A  skeptic  in  the  heart. 

Your  eyes  cannot  annoy  me, 
However  bright  they  glow ; 

Your  words  cannot  decoy  me, 
However  smooth  they  flow ; 


PROMISCUOUS  POEMS.  357 

In  sooth,  by  your  example, 

So  callous  have  I  grown, 
I  care  not  for  your  smile,  my  girl, 

Nor  do  I  heed  your  frown. 

The  play  at  length  is  over 

Before  it  well  began ; 
I  Ve  acted  once  the  lover, 

And  now  will  try  the  man ; 
But  not  in  tragic  story, 

To  sigh  upon  the  stage  ; 
Nor  do  I  make  for  you,  my  girl, 

An  "  exit  in  a  rage." 


THE   FOOT-RACE. 

DOWN  in  a  little   lane, 

Lived  a  little  maid  so  vain, 
So  sure  she  was  of  beating  when  she  ran,  ran,  ran ; 

And  this  little  maiden  said, 

"  Oh,  I  'm  not  the  least  afraid, 
So,  little  sir,  come,  catch  me,  if  you  can,  can,  can." 

You  should  have  seen  the  chase, 

'T  was  such  a  funny  race ; 
A  very  funny  race  it  was  they  ran,  ran,  ran ; 

The  maiden  full  of  laughter, 

And,  close  pursuing  after, 
As  hard  as  he  could  tear,  the  little  man,  man,  man. 

More  of  this  little  maid 

To  mention  I  'm  afraid ; 
Some  other  time  I  '11  tell  you,  if  I  can,  can,  can ; 

But  you  may  safely  bet 

They  are  not  running  yet  — 
That  maiden  and  that  funny  little  man,  man,  man. 


RHYMES  FOE  THE  TIMES. 

THIS  world  is  very  fanciful, 
And  changing  all  the  time, — 

While  some  are  fond  of  politics, 
And  some  are  fond  of  rhyme. 

Patterns  are  some  of  piety, 

Of  wickedness  are  some; 
One  lectures  on  sobriety, 

Another  treats  on  rum. 

Some  are  the  soul  of  honor, 
A  blessing  where  one  lives ; 

Some  (on  the  whole)  have  little  soul, 
Except  what  money  gives. 

Some  will  rebuke  you  rudely, 
Yet  be  your  friend  the  while ; 

While  some  will  smile  before  your  face, 
And  "stab  you  while  they  smile." 

Some  are  in  love  with  gambling, 
Some  are  in  love  with  girls ; 

Some  "hide  their  talents  in  the  earth," 
Some  cast  to  swine  their  pearls. 


360  VOICES   OF   THE   BORDER. 

The  trader  likes  his  "custom," 

The  miser  likes  his  "heap;" 
We  like  to  sell  at  prices  dear, 

To  buy  at  prices  cheap. 

The  lawyer  likes  a  parchment, 

The  doctor  likes  a  skull; 
The  actor,  he  prefers  to  see 

Parquet  and  boxes  full. 

The  painter  likes  a  portrait, 

The  school-boy  likes  a  show; 
While  the  girls,  I  ween,  "  of  sweet  sixteen," 

Would  sometimes  —  like  a  beau. 

A  "lassie  likes  a  laddie," 

And  "a  laddie  likes  a  lass," 
And  a  dandy  likes  to  look  upon 

A  monkey  in  a  glass. 

A  tailor  's  fond  of  "  cabbage," 

A  broker's  death  on  stocks, 
A  mill-wright  dreams  of  wheels  and  streams, 

While  a  peddler  's  all  for  clocks. 

A  spirit  likes  a  "  medium,"  — 

A  medium,  bugs  called  "  hum,"  — 

And  with  her  toe  she  likes  to  show 
How  spirits  go  and  come. 


PROMISCUOUS  POEMS.  361 

Some  like  to  follow  fashion, 

Without  the  purse  to  pay, 
And  starve  for  nearly  half  a  year 

To  make  "a  grand  display." 

Some  go  abroad  on  travel, 

To  talk  of  foreign  things ; 
While  they  who  stop  to  keep  the  shop, 

Go  —  "  only  to  the   springs" 

Some  visit  lands  as   "  patriots," 

In  a  "  filibuster  "  ship  ; 
While  others  stay  at  home  and  pay 

Their  bills  in  Fenian  scrip. 

Some  strike  for  abolition,  — 

Men  of  no  small  renown,  — 
And  in  the  cause  of  "higher  laws" 

Knock  the  high-sheriff  down. 

While  others  preach  secession, 

Talk  of  a  "  lonely  star," 
And  rave  and  swear  by  earth  and  air 

"  Our  voice  is  still  for  war." 

Yes !   this  world  is  very  fanciful, 

And  changing  all  the  time ; 
Some,  they  are  fond  of  politics, 

And  some  are  fond  of  rhyme. 


is**. 

* 


APR29  1985 


DATE  DUE 


1385. 


GAYLORD 


PRINTED  IN  U 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  591  654    9 


3  1970  00307  7630 


